A Simple Kind of Life
by tider58
Summary: The boys have a (gasp!) sister. She is equal parts rebellious and desperate for approval.
1. Chapter 1

**Yep, it's a Winsister fic. I know that's not everybody's cup o' tea, so no hard feelings if you run away screaming. Frankly I'm not sure I'm going to keep going with this, but I had this chapter written and thought what the hell. I haven't done the fanfic thing in a long time. Disclaimer. If you do read and enjoy, I'd love to hear from you.  
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I honestly did not know that it was possible for someone to yell for the entirety of a 20-minute drive. Dean proved it to be not only possible, but seemingly easy. I'd stopped cringing about five minutes in, even though his tirade gradually increased in both volume and intensity. I sank down as low as I could go in the backseat and hugged myself.

"You better be listening good, little girl, because this is the last time, you hear me, the LAST TIME I'm going to bail you out of trouble that you wander into eyes wide open. You need my help, you better have just fallen headfirst into a vamp nest on your way to feed starving children. No more of this LOOKING for trouble that you've been doing since you were a little kid. What were you THINKING, huh? I mean, I thought you had a _little_ common sense. Didn't we teach you anything, ever? Were you just checked out like you are now? Is that it? We taught you how to protect yourself, you went off into fantasy land dreaming up new and fun ways to get your ass killed?"

And on and on and on. Finally something inside me snapped. "Just _shut up_ already," I muttered through clenched teeth, pounding my fist into the worn leather of the seat. And then the car screeched over to the side of the road in a shower of gravel and I instantly, deeply regretted saying it, and started calculating my odds of making a run for it.

Before I could make a move, though, he had burst out of the driver's seat, yanked open my door, and pulled me out by the upper arm. I yelped, more because I was startled than because he'd hurt me, but his grip was strong and the intensity in his green eyes was terrifying.

"You want to say that again?" he demanded, his tone dangerous.

"No! Not particularly," I said.

His eyes burned into mine, daring me to talk back again. "Good. Because NOTHING about this is a JOKE, Callie. You could have DIED and no one would be LAUGHING. Do you get that?" He seized my shoulders and gave me a hard little shake. "Do you know how fucking pissed off I am right now?"

"Um, yeah Dean, you're making it pretty clear," I said, unwillingly resuming my smartass tone.

" _Drop the attitude!_ " Dean shouted right in my face, and I was back to cringing. "If Dad were here he would beat the SHIT out of you and that's exactly what I should do. You want to know why I'm not going to?"

"Because you don't hit me," I said, hopeful that that fact wasn't about to change.

"Because I just might get a few good licks in and not be able to stop! Because for three days, Callie, THREE DAYS, Sam and I have been thinking the worst. That you were dead and rotting in some creeper's trunk! That you were vamp food! That you were walking around as some demon's meat suit! And now all I can think is how much I want to make you pay for putting us through that."

"Gee, thanks, big brother." _What the hell was the matter with me?_

"Are you actually mouthing off to me right now?" he asked incredulously. "Does that seem like a good idea to you?"

I pressed my lips together, staring at the gravel under my feet.

"Get back in the car."

"Dean," I started, but he jerked his head toward the Impala's open door.

"Now."

We were home in five minutes. Five minutes of blessed silence.

When Dean flung the door open to the hotel du jour, Sam jumped up from one of the beds, his laptop falling off his knees and onto the rumpled bedspread. "Oh my God," he said, pulling me roughly into an embrace. My mouth and nose were pressed into his chest and I couldn't breathe for a moment. Then he grasped my shoulders and held me away so he could stare me down, his eyes angry and relieved and fearful all at once. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I muttered.

"Good, good," he said, almost to himself, before his fingers dug into my shoulders and he gave me a hard shake. "What the HELL, Callie?!"

"I'm sorry," I said, meaning it. "I really am. I'm sorry I worried you guys."

"Worried us? WORRIED us? Cal, we thought you were DEAD. We were a little far removed from worried. How could you be so irresponsible?"

"Sammy, look, Dean has already read me the riot act. And then some," I added, risking a quick glance at my oldest brother, who raised an eyebrow at me. "Can I just catch my breath before you start in?"

I couldn't help feeling a little braver with usually-level-headed Sam than volatile Dean. Sam might yell but he would much sooner come to his senses and remember the important thing, that I was alive. Dean, on the other hand, I was pretty sure had not been exaggerating when he said that if he started hitting me he might not stop. I didn't want to test the theory.

I took a quick shower and dressed in one of Sam's old T-shirts, which came to below my knees and smelled like comfort. My room adjoined the boys', both doors open as usual, and when I came out of the bathroom I was surprised and a little afraid to see my oldest brother sitting on one of the beds waiting for me. He looked calmer, at least, but I didn't want to make any assumptions. So I just sat across from him, the wet towel dangling limply from my hands, waiting.

He took his time, but when he finally spoke his voice was gruff but not angry. Just tired.

"Listen. You're not gonna like what I'm gonna say, Cal, but I gotta say it. I don't _want_ to say it. But this is what it comes down to. We're taking you to Bobby's tomorrow and you're gonna stay with him until I feel like it's safe for you to be with us again."

My mouth fell open. "Dean, no."

He shook his head. "Things are too dangerous right now, Callie. You make stupid decisions at the worst possible times and we can't do what we have to do if we spend most of our time worrying about you. This is how it's gonna be."

"Dean, you can't! You can't just ditch me."

He closed his eyes and shook his head. "That's not … We're not ditching you. You know better than that."

"How long are you talking about?"

"As long as it takes. Till the demon rave gets under control again, or until … well, until I think it's safe."

"It'll NEVER be safe. You're the one who taught me that! Our lives will never be safe, Dean, we just stick together and keep each other alive! Please don't send me away. I will stick close from now on, okay, no more solo missions, I promise. I'm sorry!"

He took a deep breath through his nose like my words hurt him. "This isn't because I'm mad, okay? This is about keeping you safe. It's my most important job and it's not something I'm willing to risk screwing up."

"NO, Dean. Where's Sam? SAMMY?" I stood up and headed for the other room.

"He's not here. He doesn't exactly agree with me on this. But you know what, that doesn't matter. This isn't a democracy. We do things my way, and this is what I've decided. Now you should get some sleep."

"Like hell!"

"Excuse me?"

I stared at him as if he had suddenly grown a second head. "No! No, Dean, you do not get to tell me that you're about to toss me to the curb like yesterday's garbage and then expect me to say 'yes, sir, whatever you say, sir,' and act like everything's fine!"

He stood up and took a step toward me, his jaw tight. "Callie, this isn't up for debate. Now go to bed or sit here and be pissed off and think about all the reasons you hate me and all the ways you'd like to kill me. It's not gonna change the fact that we are dropping you at Bobby's tomorrow morning, so suck it up and try not to be a complete brat about it. Hell, with your attitude, we're lucky we have someone willing to take you in."

Stung, I stared at him, willing myself not to cry. Those words HURT. "I do hate you," I choked out, my voice catching on the words.

He nodded. "I can live with that as long as you're safe."

"Fuck you, Dean!"

His green eyes snapped up to mine. "Careful," he warned quietly.

"You can't even pretend this is about keeping me safe! You've been looking for an excuse to get rid of me. I know I hold you back, you've said it before. So you finally found a good enough reason to do it, well congratulations. Don't worry, though, I'm saving you a road trip. I don't need you and I sure as hell don't need Bobby to babysit me."

I grabbed my well-worn duffel off the floor. All my important stuff was already in it; I never bothered to unpack anymore. Slinging it over my shoulder, I started for the door.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" Dean asked, sounding more weary than anything else.

"Tell my brother I'll text him when I get settled," I said coldly, knowing I sounded like a horrible brat but past the point of caring. I was too busy trying to fight the sobs that wanted to overtake me to worry about what he might think of me.

Dean's hand on my shoulder stopped me before I managed to open the door. "You're not leaving this room, Cal. You know that."

"You gonna stop me?" I challenged.

He raised an eyebrow at me, saying without words that that was exactly what was going to happen.

I tried again anyway, flinging the door open and stepping out into the night. This time he hooked an arm around my waist and actually lifted me off the ground as he swung me back inside. He tossed me on the nearest bed and pointed a stern finger in my face.

"Look, little girl. You don't have to like this. You don't even have to understand. But you have to do it, and it'll be a whole lot easier on both of us if you'll just accept that. Now are you going to cooperate?" He reached in his back pocket and held up a pair of handcuffs. I knew it wasn't an empty threat, and my jaw dropped as I let the seriousness of the situation sink in.

"How did it come to this, Dean?" I asked coldly. "When did you become this guy?"

"Oh, I've always been this guy, baby. You just used to play by the rules."

We stared each other down for what seemed like a long time, until the door to the other room opened and Sam appeared in our adjoining doorway. He shouldered past Dean and came to sit next to me.

"I guess I don't have to ask if he broke the news to you," he said, then shot Dean a disgusted look when he saw the cuffs dangling from his finger. "And that it went over just as well as I told him it would."

"Sammy," I said. "Please don't let him send me away. I need to be with you; I'm SAFE with you."

He placed a big hand on the back of my head and drew my head to rest on his shoulder, shushing me. "It's going to be okay, sweetheart, all right? We're not leaving you."

"Sam."

I could feel the tension traveling between my brothers and knew they were having some silent conversation with their eyes. I only hoped Sam would win the fight. The idea of being shipped off to Bobby scared me, not because I had anything against Bobby himself, of course; I loved the man. But because it used to happen all the time, when I was younger and Dad was with us. I'd get stuck with Bobby. Or Ellen. Sometimes a hunter I'd never even met. It could be for a day or two, or it could be a week or more. Time didn't mean much to me as a kid. All I knew was that those long, fearful days of not knowing made me feel more alone than anything in the world. _They could be dead now,_ I would think. _I might not have a brother anymore. Or a dad. I could be on my own for REAL, and then what?_

Once they were gone for two full weeks. I marked it on the wall of the bedroom I was staying in, just to keep track. It was one of those times I'd been with a stranger. Someone Dad knew well and trusted at least enough to stick his third-wheel kid with for a while. But I hated it. The guy and his wife were nice enough, but they didn't know what to do with my eight-year-old self, especially my ANGRY eight-year-old self. Because I was angrier than I'd ever been before. So when the Impala came growling into their driveway two full weeks later and Sam and Dean emerged, grinning as they started toward me, I ran the other way. They caught me pretty easily, given the longer legs and all, and Dean scooped me up like a puppy and pressed me against him in a hug that was determined, if one-sided.

" _I'm sorry, Cal," he murmured into my shoulder. "It was too long, I know. I'm sorry."_

 _And as he held me against him, my rigid form finally relaxed and I started crying into his leather jacket. I was passed off to Sam, who hugged me just as tightly, planted a big kiss on my cheek, and set me on my feet when Dad's voice boomed from behind us._

" _Hey, don't I get a greeting?"_

 _I looked at him and felt the conflicting emotions that so often warred within me when in John Winchester's presence. But this time, the emotion that came out on top was the anger. "No," I said._

 _I felt more than saw my brothers look at me, one on each side, with identical expressions of surprise. No one said no to our dad. Except for Sam, sometimes, and that never ended well._

" _Callie, come here and give your old man a hug," he said, and it was clear he was trying to keep his tone light even though I'd clearly irritated him._

 _Sam put a hand on my back and gently urged me forward. I shook him off. "I said NO. That would mean I'm glad to see you, and I'm NOT. You DUMPED me here and didn't call for two whole weeks, I counted the days, and I didn't know if you were coming back and it SUCKED."_

" _You need to watch your tone and your words, young lady," Dad said in a low tone I knew all too well. "I know that you're upset, but I am your father and you don't speak to me that way."_

 _I turned and started to storm off, because tears of frustration were burning in my eyes and I didn't want them to see. Behind me, I heard three sets of footsteps and Dean's voice say "Dad, hey, come on, she's just—"_

 _And then I was yanked to a stop by the elbow and three stinging smacks landed on my ass, making me cry out and reach back to protect myself from more._

" _You do not walk away from me when I'm talking to you," Dad said. "Do you understand, or do we need to have a longer conversation about it?"_

 _I glanced at my brothers. Dean looked kind of sick and guilty, and Sam was subtly shaking his head, begging me with his eyes to cooperate._

 _I took a deep, shaky breath and then said, "Yes, sir. I understand." And I let him pull me into a hug that I didn't return, but didn't break away from._

" _I know you don't want to hear it, Callie, but I'm glad to see you. Now I'm going inside to see Chris and Marie before we hit the road. You go pack up." He headed back toward the house, and I shook my head as Sam and Dean both tried to say something comforting or apologetic or whatever._

 _I didn't want to hear it._

Now, they were going to do it again. Cast me off on Bobby like the third wheel I'd always been. And I wouldn't, I couldn't let it happen. I needed them. I clung to Sammy and tried to make him understand through my desperate grip that he _had to_ fight Dean on this, and win.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you for the reviews! They really mean a lot to me and definitely keep me writing when I'm on the fence about it. Here's Chapter 2. Big thanks in advance for any reviews you take the time to post.**

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I didn't speak the whole way to Bobby's. That's right. Guess who won the argument about whether or not to dump me. I'm not sure I'd ever been so pissed off and hurt at the same time. Sam clearly felt guilty, and kept puppy-dog-eyeing me from the passenger seat. Each time I met his eyes, I either looked away or returned his glance with my patented Winchester Look Of Death, depending on how I was feeling at the moment.

Dean took a different approach, pretending that he didn't notice the waves of bitterness and brooding and pure black hatred I was emitting on a regular basis. When we pulled up to a roadside diner for an early lunch, I didn't budge from the backseat.

"Come on, Cal, this place don't deliver," he said, leaning back in through his open door.

"I'm. Not. Hungry." I met his gaze steadily, daring him with my eyes to try to force me out of this car.

He stared back for a few long moments, and I could see the wheels turning in his head. He was tempted, on the one hand, to fall back on his I'm-the-boss-and-you-will-obey M.O., because that's what usually works and that's what he's most comfortable with. On the other hand, he felt guilty and I knew it. He couldn't deny that I had every right to be pissed, and hurt, and all the other things I was, and that made him a little gentler than he might have been under ordinary circumstances.

"Suit yourself," he said, drumming his fingers on the Impala's roof before walking into the diner.

Sam hesitated standing outside the car, looking from Dean's departing figure to me before squatting down to peer through my open window. "Callie, please try to look at it from his side. He's not doing this to hurt you, you know."

I shot daggers from my eyes and they impaled him through the forehead. Well no, they didn't. But I think the look I gave him got my point across.

"And it's not like this is a permanent arrangement. We're pretty close to putting this thing to bed. The second it's safe, we'll be back for you. You know that, right?"

Glare. Glare harder. Maybe you can make his head explode by sheer force of will.

"Will you please come inside and have something to eat? You know Bobby's not the best cook; this might be the last good meal you get for a while," he said, attempting a joke. My glare didn't waver. "I'll buy you a shake," he tried. "Chocolate."

I sighed and turned away. "Just leave me alone, Sam."

He was puppy-dog eyeing me, I could tell without even looking. And if I did look I'd start to feel bad that HE felt bad, and then I'd lose whatever small, evil satisfaction I'd gained from making at least ONE of my brothers feel shitty about what they were about to do to me.

"If you change your mind, come inside, okay? I don't want to leave things this way, and I think you'll regret it if we do."

His footsteps crunched away. I sat still for a few long moments, until the stinging in my eyeballs eased up and I was almost pretty sure I wasn't going to cry. No way would I cry in front of them. And if I cried now, in the car, they'd come back and see my red eyes and hear my snotty sniffles and they'd KNOW and then I'd have to kill them.

I waited till they'd been gone about 10 minutes or so and then got out of the Impala. I leaned against it and stared at nothing. I knew at least two sets of eyes were fixed on me through the plate-glass window of the diner, but I didn't even glance that way. Those eyes were always on me and had been since I could remember. They took overprotectiveness to new heights, those two. I used to think it was a sign that they cared. Now I knew it was something else, at least for Dean. Probably something he felt he owed to Dad, to make sure his bastard child didn't grow up to be a hooker or get turned by a vampire or become a Scientologist or something.

When I was a little kid, and less bitter than I've gotten in the years since, Dean was more than my big brother. He was my bodyguard, my buddy, my teacher, my absolute freaking HERO. With Dad gone more and more, and not really with us when he was around, if that makes any sense, Dean stepped easily into his parental role and, in my humble opinion, did a much better than John did on his best day. One day, when I was about eleven years old and feeling my oats, I walked into the motel room we were currently staying in and right into the middle of a patented John Winchester verbal beatdown. I don't know what Dean had done, but all I had to see was the hurt in his green eyes even as he held his face stony and unreadable, and I was ready to claw our father's face. I stood there for a few moments, my backpack swinging from my hand, until Dad shouted at MY BROTHER that he was a waste of his training and was one day going to get his damn fool self killed, and probably his brother and sister as well. Then I couldn't stay still any longer.

Stepping in front of Dean, facing Dad, I actually _pointed my finger at his face_ as I screamed, "Stop it! Just shut up! You can't talk to him like that!"

Can you believe I lived to tell the tale? Well, I did. In fact, shockingly, Dad didn't react except to lower his own accusatory finger, which had been pointing at his eldest son, and stand there blinking at me as if I were a bewildering figment of his imagination.

Dean, on the other hand, grabbed me by the upper arm and spun me to face him. "Callie!" he barked, pinning me to the spot with his fiery gaze. "Apologize. Now."

I was so surprised I couldn't form words, but my mouth opened and closed a few times like a fish. But … I was standing up for him. Why was he mad at ME?

"Apologize to Dad and then go in the other room and shut the door. Do you hear me?"

My face fell, but I turned back around to our dad and muttered what was probably the least sincere "Sorry" that's ever been uttered. Then I jerked my arm from my brother's grip and ran into the adjoining room, slamming the door behind me.

There had been no more yelling, and I couldn't make out the words Dad was saying even with my ear pressed up against the door. But I knew he was still laying into him. I knew he was still hurting Dean. I knew I was on the verge of hating him.

He left soon after, and we didn't hear from him for a while. I was okay with that. And I got a lecture from Dean about respect that made me roll my eyes and ended up with me grounded.

Grounded from what? Yeah, I never figured it out either. My life was motel rooms and bad movies on cable (when we were lucky enough to be in a room that had cable).

Now, leaning against the Impala and feeling the two sets of eyes watching my every move, I wished Dean had left the keys so I could just drive away. THAT would put a bit of a wrench in their plans. Then again, that would also get me killed when they inevitably caught up with me. And there would be no crossroads-demon-deals for me if I pulled a stunt like that, oh no. I'd be salted and burned and Dean would probably still be yelling at the funeral pyre long after I'd turned to ash.

That's morbid. What can I say; I was feeling morbid. The two people I loved most in the world were abandoning me. And call me crazy, but the way I grew up, abandonment issues were as natural as salting doors and windows, carrying a flask of holy water in my back pocket, eating greasy road food, and not putting my feet on the seats of Dean's precious car.

It was a quick meal. Dean was still chewing when they came out. Sam handed me a to-go cup and I peeled back the lid to see he'd ordered me a chocolate shake. Damn that stinging in my eyes again! I turned away from it, from him. I couldn't.

"All right, let's hit it. I told Bobby we'd be there early afternoon," Dean said as Sam sadly took the rejected shake and tossed it toward a nearby trash can.

They both got in and the engine kicked on with a growl. I just stood there.

"Cal," Dean finally said, not looking at me. "Let's go."

"No," I said. It sounded just as bratty as it looks, just that word, flat and stubborn and final. Except of course it wasn't final, and I knew that, and they knew that, because I never never never won these things. I didn't have a choice, and I knew it and I hated him for making it that way and Sam for letting it happen.

Dean sighed, and I saw his knuckles whiten as he gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. "I will _put_ you in the car," he said. "Don't make me do that."

"And I'll scream that I'm being kidnapped. I can scream loud."

He rolled his eyes. "Tell me about it."

Sam muttered something to Dean under his breath, clearly something I wasn't meant to hear. Dean slapped the steering wheel in frustration and then got out of the car. I braced myself, expecting to be seized and thrown into the backseat. Something in his eyes stopped me from bolting.

"Callie, I know you hate me right now. I'm not my biggest fan at the moment either. I'm sorry it has to be this way," he said, and I could hear that he meant it. There was ACTUAL EMOTION in his voice and in his eyes. I told myself not to budge. "But it does. Okay? Can you make this easier for everybody and just cooperate?"

I glared at him. "I've been pretty cooperative, if you ask me," I snapped. "I didn't run off or steal your car or slash your tires while you guys were in there eating, I haven't thrown any sucker punches, I'm still HERE. If you mean you want me to smile and pretend that this is okay with me, that it doesn't make me feel like last week's garbage, then no. I'm not going to make it easy for you."

He closed his eyes against my words. "Cal, you know it's not like that."

"I don't care," I lied badly. Stupid voice was shaking now.

He reached for me. I tried to twist away but he was so much stronger. His big hands held both my shoulders firmly and he trapped my green eyes with his. "We will be back for you. Do you hear me, Callie? There is not a demon or angel or monster in heaven or hell or on earth that can keep us from you. And when it's safe, when I don't have Lucifer's entire posse out for my blood, the first thing I'm gonna do is haul ass to Bobby's and pick you up and we're gonna eat burgers with extra onions and watch shitty horror flicks for a week. I'll even let you have a beer. Right now I need you to trust me that I'm doing what I think is right for you. Can you do that? Can you trust me?"

Tears—dammit, TEARS—slipped out of my eyes and rolled freely down my cheeks. His hands left my shoulders so that he could brush them away with his thumbs. I couldn't speak, but I nodded. Of course I trusted him. I was angry at him. I was SAD. Mostly, I was terrified. Of losing either one of them. But I trusted them, and if I told him I didn't it would hurt him the way Dad had that day so long ago when he'd told Dean he was destined to get Sam and me killed someday.

My nod seemed to set him abruptly at ease, like he'd been holding his breath and that this was all he'd needed to hear. He pulled me roughly into his arms and buried his face in the top of my head, his lips pressing against my hair. I heard Sam step in behind me and wrap his arms around me from the other side, so that I was the middle of a brother sandwich. The tears came harder, my breath hitching and a sob or two escaping against my will.

"It's going to be fine, baby girl," Dean murmured. "It's going to be fine."

I believed him.

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 **Okay, what'd ya think? R &R please!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey! Thanks for the reviews! They made me happy. Happy makes me write. I did want to give a little backstory for how Callie came to be, and it's (obvs) not canon, but it does make sense. She is 16 in the current storyline. She is 13 years younger than Dean and 9 years younger than Sam. I hope this helps put things in perspective. Anyway, here's the next part. Please let me know what you think!**

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 _Dean and Sam found out about the baby four months after she was born. John got drunk one night—well, not that_ that _was unusual, but this time there was something more to it, something darker—and once he started talking, even though he offered no back story and he wasn't exactly making a lot of sense, they gathered immediately that it was important. And gradually, through his slurring words and admonitions and defensive posturing, they pieced it together. Their dad had fathered a kid. Another kid. The mother was a hunter they'd known for years. Clearly not as well as_ John _knew her, but … well. And she was dead; she'd died a week ago while on a routine ghost hunt._

 _And the baby? The baby was being cared for by Ellen while John was supposed to be preparing the boys for their new role as brothers. Instead, he was pouring large quantities of liquor on his feelings and telling his already-overly-mature 9- and 13-year-old sons that they were about to become surrogate parents to the baby girl he now found himself saddled with._

 _He passed out an hour later, fully clothed in the middle of one of the beds, and Dean took his shoes off and draped a blanket over him._

 _Then Dean took a beer out of the fridge and went to sit on the curb outside the door of their room. Dad wouldn't wake up and catch him, and he needed something, that was for sure. It was good enough for Dad._

 _He sipped his beer and thought about what it meant to have a baby sister. He was already devoted beyond all reason to his little brother, and thinking of a tiny Winchester girl out there, helpless and missing her mom and not understanding anything … it triggered something in him. He felt it growing even as he sat and sipped. It was deep, powerful, almost frightening in its intensity. It wasn't quite love, not yet, he hadn't even seen her yet. But he understood that his purpose had changed, had expanded to include not just Sammy but this baby girl. He would protect her to his last breath. He would protect her with his life._

 _Caroline. Her name was Caroline._

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Nobody ever called me by my real name. Callie I had been since the first day I was taken in by my dad and brothers. Maybe Caroline was too girly for this family of overly testosteroned males; whatever it was, I was Callie from then on. Well, except when I was in _serious_ trouble (as opposed to the moderate exasperation with which I was all too often regarded by my family). Like, for instance, when I fought with Dean when I was nine because (surprise, surprise), he told me he and Sam were leaving me with Bobby for a couple of days, and I retaliated by sneaking outside with his car keys and promptly ramming the Impala into a tree. That last part was NOT part of the plan, by the way.

Once he'd ascertained that I was not hurt, it was all "CAROLINE WINCHESTER, WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU" and "GET OUT OF THE CAR NOW; I'M GONNA BEAT YOUR ASS SIX WAYS FROM SUNDAY" and "IF YOU EVER, _EVER_ …"

I was proud of myself for not wetting my pants right there; even now, at sixteen, I've never seen my brother look QUITE so pissed off, and I've seen my brother look CRAZY pissed off before and since. Eventually I'd become Callie again—but it took a while.

It's funny, now that those a-hole brothers of mine had been gone for almost a month, even memories like that one (which I totally, understandably, thought was going to be my last day on earth, no matter how many brushes I'd had with death in my time, _that_ still stands out as my closest call) make me sentimental. The way Sam had run over to us and tugged me back a few feet away from Dean, trying to put some physical distance between us in case Dean finished the process of losing his shit. The way I clung to him as I apologized over and over and over, and the way Dean visibly tried to put his rage on lockdown, pacing around in front of us and flexing his hands like he really wanted to punch something. Yep, Winchester nostalgia is its own thing.

Fortunately, the anger takes over again pretty quickly. I think it bears repeating: They'd been gone for a MONTH. Sure, there were phone calls, but I had only actually talked to them three times, and that was in the beginning, while our sweet-sappy-sibling- farewell-lovefest was still fresh in my mind and I was still blissfully unaware that they were going to leave me FOR OVER A MONTH. After that I screened the calls and deleted the voicemails without listening to them and maybe cried a little bit into my pillow every time but don't you dare tell anyone that.

"Don't you think you're being a little hard on 'em?" Bobby asked me one morning. "They just want to hear your voice. They miss ya."

I glared at him over the top of the book I was reading. "Sucks for them," I said. "I don't feel like pretending I don't hate them, so I'm saving us all a lot of trouble by avoiding the situation."

He cleared his throat, clearly annoyed, and rattled his newspaper. "Suit yourself then, sunshine," he said. "Just remember that you're not nearly so tough as you like to think you are, and you're pretty much just cutting off your nose to spite your face."

"Thank you for your wisdom," I said sassily, before I could reel the words back in.

Bobby shot me a look. "Careful, missy," he said. "I don't like your tone."

I muttered a "sorry" and headed back to my room.

Then something changed. I felt the shift before I heard the mutters. First Bobby speaking intensely but indistinctly on the phone, then hunters dropping by and having closed-door sitdowns, brainstorms, what have you. I didn't like it one bit. Bobby became crankier than usual, and distant, like he kept forgetting I was there and then when he caught sight of me he would get this weird look on his face. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I didn't like it one bit.

One day I pressed my ear up against the door of the room Bobby used as a hunter's library. The wood was thick and I couldn't catch all of it, but the words I did hear "…but those boys aren't going to … Sure they do; who the hell do you think raised 'em? … prepared for something like this … suicide mission!"

And that's when I burst through the door. "What's happening? Where are my brothers?" I demanded.

Bobby muttered a final order to whoever he was speaking to on the phone and slammed it down on the desk in front of him. "Ever hear of knocking?" he demanded. "Who taught you to go around spying on people in their own houses?"

"Everyone," I answered truthfully. "Where are Sam and Dean? Are they okay?"

"Sure they're okay, kid," he said gruffly, but his eyes darted away from mine and I knew he was lying. I could spot lying; I'd been lied to enough in my lifetime that now it was second nature to recognize it.

"Bobby!" I said, a note of fear entering my voice. "Please tell me what's going on! Something is wrong. I know something is wrong and if you don't tell me I will find someone who will."

He seemed to be sizing me up before answering. Finally he said, "Sit down, Callie girl," and I did, like a stone, my knees buckling and spilling me into a chair almost without my brain giving my body permission to move. I couldn't feel my lips, my hands, or my feet. There was a buzzing in my ears.

"Your brothers have gone missing on a hunt," he said plainly. "We got people on it, the BEST people, out there tracking them right now. Last we had 'em was near Lawrence, Kansas, and that's our best bet. Lotta action over that way, for your family in particular. Odds are they've run into a little trouble but they haven't been gone long enough to panic. Alarms are raised, sure, but they're smart boys, your brothers, and we're gonna bring 'em home to you."

I couldn't see his face anymore. My eyes had blurred with tears, and my heart had stopped. Well, maybe not stopped, stopped, but it did something unpleasant. And then I was sliding out of my chair and onto the floor.

My last thought before the darkness overtook me was _"Why didn't I answer their calls?"_

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 **Please review! :) _  
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	4. Chapter 4

**Sometimes I think I'm tapped out and then I stare at a blank doc on my computer and a chapter suddenly appears. That's what happened here. Please review; I would love to know if anyone wants me to continue.**

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" _Callie Winchester!"_

I jerk myself awake at the sound of my dad's gruff shout. Sitting up and rubbing a fist against my eyes, I blink around and try to gather my senses. Starting with the basics, where am I? Easy. I am in a tree.

Um. What?

I blink harder, only to confirm my original assessment. Yes. I am in a tree. My legs are straddling a branch and my back is leaning against the trunk and I had _fallen asleep in a damn tree._ The sun is low in the sky, I can tell that from the quality of the shadows dappling the ground below—far below—me.

"CALLIE! Answer me now!"

My heart pounds in my chest. _Shit_. I had left Bobby's house a long time ago. _Hours_ ago. Without telling anyone. In all my nine years I have known just one single, simple truth: If your name is Winchester, you do not leave anyplace, at any time, under any circumstances— _ever_ —without telling someone else named Winchester.

I broke the law. And I am in deep shit.

Why can't it be Sam down there yelling for me? Sweet Sammy, the most level-headed of all of us, my giant teddy bear of a brother, who seldom even speaks a harsh word in my direction and more often than not serves as a buffer protecting me from the harsh words spoken by our father and other brother. And if not Sam, why not Dean, who, while hot-tempered and easily provoked, is also just as quick to settle, to bank the coals of his fury and draw me in for a hug after he gets the yelling out of his system.

Why Dad? Dad hates me, and I don't know how to do anything about that. It's why I left in the first place. I am sick of him, I needed some space to breathe and, well, simmer.

But do you think that's going to fly as an excuse? Let me introduce you to my father.

I take a deep, steadying breath and swing expertly down from the tree, dangling by my hands for a moment before dropping to the ground. I land hard but steady on my feet. "Dad?" I call out. Instantly there is rustling in the woods to my right, and he bursts through the trees a few seconds later. I am grabbed by the shoulders as his eyes scrutinize me, doing the familiar old "Are you hurt?" scan so he can be sure he's got a reason to be pissed before he lets loose.

"Where in the holy hell have you been, young lady?" he demands, and I bite my lip and glance behind him, hoping to see Sam or Dean bringing up the rear. No such luck. He shakes me slightly to regain my attention. "We've been looking for you all afternoon."

"I-I'm sorry," I manage. "I was just …"

"Just what, Callie? Climbing _trees_? Is _that_ what you found so goddamn important you had to sneak away from your brothers and run off into the woods for? You have _no idea_ how many monsters would love to rip you limb from limb, do you? How many demons would love nothing better than to lay claim to a WINCHESTER SOUL. How close to death you are _at any given moment_ of any given day. You think you have the freedom of other kids your age, but you _don't_. Not if you want to live to see ten." He glares at me and I gape back at him, my mouth hanging open, no words within my grasp. Finally he makes a disgusted sound at the back of his throat, and I flinch. "Here. _You_ explain to your brothers. And get the hell back to the house." He thrusts his cell phone into my hands and points a commanding finger through the trees in what I presume to be the direction of Bobby's house.

My shaking finger manages to find Sam's name in the contacts list and press the button that will connect me to him. Dean answers: "Dad, did you find her?"

I lick my lips and keep crunching forward through the dry leaves toward Bobby's. "Dean? It's me."

"Callie! Shit, kiddo, where are you?"

He sounds relieved and alert, worried, but not angry. At least not yet. I glance behind me. "I'm with Dad," I say. "I'm okay."

I hear some muffled exchange and know he's talking to Sam. "We'll meet you at the house," he says, and the connection is broken.

My father doesn't say another word to me as he herds me back through the woods and into the clearing that is the junkyard behind Bobby's house. Dean and Sam are waiting for us in the yard, though, and I go to them almost gratefully even though they're not happy with me at the moment.

"Where were you?" Sam asks me, at the same time as Dean asks Dad, "Where was she?" My father and I glance at each other and he scoffs a little, and it hurts a little more than a little.

"She was climbing trees," he says. "Because that's gonna help her become a good hunter one day."

"How do you know?" I say, surprising all of us. "Who's to say it won't save my life one day?"

He strides forward and grasps my arm and wrenches me away from my brothers so that I'm facing him, getting a good close-up of his anger and disappointment in me, in what I am and who I am and who I'll never be. "Watch. Your. Mouth," he hisses, and I can't even look him in the eye. I look to Dean, who gives me a subtle shake of the head that silently tells me to stand down.

"I'm leaving you to Dean to deal with," he continues. "I've got actual work to do. But let me tell you this, just so we're clear. This won't happen again. Do you understand me?"

I nod.

"I can't hear you."

"No, sir," I say bitterly. "It won't happen again."

He looks at Dean. "See to it," he says, and then he stomps away, climbs into the Impala and drives off.

We all look after him until the dust cloud clears and the sound of the engine dies away, and then Sam and Dean turn in unison to look at me. I don't really know what to expect. Dean doesn't seem quite angry enough to "see to it" in the sense that Dad probably intended, but I've been wrong on that count before and don't want to make any assumptions.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" he asks.

"I'm sorry," I say automatically. "I won't do it again."

"You bet your ass you won't. Do you know how worried we were?"

" _We_ meaning you and Sam?"

"We meaning all of us, what's the matter with you?"

"Oh please, Dad wasn't worried," I say, aiming for a casual tone but not quite making it. "He was just pissed that he had to take time out to look for me."

Dean bristles but Sam gets it. I can tell by the look he gives me, the softening of his eyes and the way his brows draw together. "Don't be stupid, of course he was," Dean snaps into the silence that follows my proclamation. "Now get inside and go to your room. You're grounded."

I roll my eyes, and the sarcasm drips freely. "Ooh, _grounded_. Please tell me that doesn't mean that I can't go to the 'big dance' on Friday. I'll just DIE."

He snags my arm and yanks me to a stop as I start to walk away. "You want to stow that, kiddo," he says in a low, stern tone. "Dad had something else in mind and you know it. So unless you want me to do this HIS way, you'll shut your mouth and do what I tell you. With about ninety-nine percent less attitude, you hear me?"

I nod reluctantly.

"What was that?"

My eyes snap to his, and I lob one more zinger at him, because the person I'm really mad at isn't there anymore. "Yes, SIR." And then I pull out of his grip and run inside before he can kill me.

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I woke up, for real this time, to a wall of darkness. I was in "my" room in Bobby's house, I was sixteen, not nine, my father was dead, and my brothers were missing. I pressed my hands to my eyes. They were still sore and hot from all the crying I've been doing lately.

If only I could stop thinking about them. Stop dreaming about them. Only that last one wasn't a dream, was it? No, it was a memory, crystal-clear and letter-perfect. I still remembered the rest of that night, how Dean had stormed in and yelled at me till he was red in the face and then gathered me into his arms when I finally broke down and told him how much it sucked that Dad hated me and how I was never going to amount to anything so why even try. And how Sam had talked to me when Dean left, told me his own childhood certainties that HE was the big disappointment and that Dad hated HIM.

It didn't matter much now, I thought. They were gone, all three of them, and I was alone in the world where monsters lurked around every corner and I'd never really learned how to aim a gun. Hell, I couldn't kill bugs, unless they were really tiny or I had no choice. If there was a big brother in the room, though, forget it.

If hunting was in the blood, as was the widely held belief among hunters, then it was clear that the genetic disposition had skipped me. I'd been taught early on how to rely on my survival instincts in dangerous situations. I could hide with the best of 'em. I could scream loud enough to shatter glass. I could find my brothers blindfolded in a crowded room. I could spot trouble a mile away (and often walked toward it instead of running the opposite way, they all complained). But, when it came to actually saving people, hunting things, I was pretty much worthless. Maybe I should be a little ashamed of that.

"Why can't you teach me to shoot?" I whined to Dean one afternoon, as I sat on the hood of a junker behind Bobby's house watching my brothers take out empty beer bottles like they were shooting fish in a barrel.

He didn't even glance my way, just aimed casually and fired off another perfect round. "You don't need to know how to shoot," he said. "You got us."

I rolled my eyes with every ounce of 8-year-old attitude I could muster. "What if you aren't around and I need to protect myself?"

As Dean reloaded, Sam stepped up for his turn. On his way by me, he reached out to ruffle my hair. "Don't worry about that; we'll always be around."

Bambambambam. Bambam.

 _We'll always be around._

After my little swan dive in Bobby's library, I pretty much checked out for the next couple of weeks, as the search for Sam and Dean flurried around me. I slept a lot. Didn't eat except when I was bullied into it by Bobby or one of the other hunters who always seemed to be around these days. I wandered. The woods surrounding Bobby's property weren't thick enough for me to actually get lost in, but they provided the kind of deep quiet and shadow I wanted. I would find a rock and sit on it, or a tree and climb it, a stream to soak my feet in as I lost myself in my thoughts. I was preparing to mourn them, I know. In my heart I didn't expect good news, ever, and part of me was waiting for the word to come down the line that they'd been found. That they weren't coming back.

Memories are a hell of a thing. I wanted to envelop myself in the good ones, but every good one piggybacked a bad one and vice versa. It's like the tangle that makes up our lives was equal parts shitty and amazing, and trying to separate the threads was pointless and impossible because in the end, it was all important, all of it. Tears and laughter. Shouts and hugs and taunting and pranks. Dad coming, Dad going. Sam buying me chocolate shakes when I was sad, talking Dean down when he felt he was being too hard on me, and nagging me about grades. Dean being too hard on me, barking orders and doling out rules and restrictions and never, ever being able to hold up under my tears. The day Sam left. Dean catching me with a stolen beer, and instead of yelling like I anticipated, sitting down beside me in the dark and putting an arm around my shoulders and just being silent and strong while I wept for our lost brother.

 _We'll always be around._

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	5. Chapter 5

**Thanks to the two of you who reviewed the last chapter! I know sisfic is an acquired taste, and I love those of you who love it as much as I do. Here's the next installment; pretty please let me know what you think.**

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The darkness was so thick I felt that I could reach out and grasp a fistful of it, squeeze it in my hand and let it ooze through the cracks between my fingers. I tried. It didn't work. For one thing, I couldn't feel my fingers. For another, I couldn't move my arm to attempt the maneuver.

I had a vague sense of dread, with a slightly sharper sense that I had done something very, very bad. Maybe this was Hell. It wasn't exactly what I'd pictured, but neither of my brothers had been very forthcoming with me about what Hell was like, and so I was stuck with the kinds of garish mental images most people probably have about Hell, if they bother think about it, which most of them probably don't. But given that nothing hurt, that I was actually fairly comfortable, in fact, that it didn't seem terribly hot or unbearably cold, it didn't match what I thought it would feel like if I were in Hell.

And then I heard voices.

They were faint at first, mumbles. I couldn't make out where one speaker ended and another began, much less actual words.

I strained harder to hear.

"Ersh."

"Ersh sonnip mandicrant!"

"Nopinifishntasangbittit."

I heard myself moan. I think it was an attempt to speak, or at least to make myself heard by these people who were talking over me and let them know I wasn't dead or anything like that (now that I was fairly certain I actually wasn't). One of my biggest fears, thanks to a Stephen King short story I'd read and regretted, was being mistaken for being dead and then buried alive. Dean and Sam teased me about that fear, but who was laughing now? Not me!

"Unnnnnnnngh."

When I uttered that sound, the unseen speakers stopped speaking. And the next time I reached to grasp a handful of darkness, my hand met with something solid. A…nother… hand? I squeezed. It squeezed back. The voices returned, sharper, more insistent.

"Sheesh conches."

"Allie? 'allie, smee. C'year me?"

I felt myself swimming toward the surface, toward this unknown consciousness that awaited me beyond the sucking tar of this thick black goo that tried to hold me captive. I gripped the hand in my hand and then with a feat of sheer will, pried my eyelids apart. Just a slit. Just enough to let in a blinding light and a pair of familiar eyes. Green. Green eyes.

"Dee?" I tried, but my voice came out a hoarse whisper.

"Yes! It's me, baby doll, I'm here. Sammy's here, too. You stay with us this time, okay? Don't go back to sleep again."

Something hot and wet slipped from the corner of my eye, and even though I still couldn't open them all the way, I could sense my brothers there with me, crowding in on either side, Sam with a huge but remarkably gentle hand smoothing my sweaty hair back from my forehead, Dean gripping my hand like he thought if he let go I would just float away into the abyss. I wasn't so sure that wouldn't happen, actually, so I was grateful for the anchor.

"You're. Alive," I whispered. Now that I'd managed to break the surface, I found consciousness returning to me faster than my body seemed prepared to handle it. My mind raced in circles, choosing and rejecting questions, not knowing where to begin and not able to make my lips form the words. "I thought. Shit."

I heard deep chuckles on both sides of me, and then Dean said gently, teasingly, "Hey, now. Just because we're worried sick about you doesn't mean you get to talk like a sailor."

Worried about me? ME? They had been gone for a MONTH. What did he mean worried about me? Whatever had happened to me, whatever, was nothing compared to what they'd been through. I wanted to say these things. I didn't have a fraction of the energy to do so.

"Wha'happened?" I managed to ask, the whisper-croak slightly louder this time, a tiny bit stronger, I thought.

"You don't remember?" Sam asked softly.

"Dude, don't ask her questions right now; give her a minute!" Dean snapped.

I felt more than heard the air shift in the room and the boys turn from me.

"Took you long enough," I heard Dean say.

"You don't have to be such a dick about it, Dean," Sam retorted. "Sorry, Cas, he's just …"

"Worried about your sister, I know."

CASTIEL. I hadn't heard his voice or seen his face in almost a year. My eyelids fluttered harder as I tried to force my eyes to open.

"Can you help her?"

The bed sagged slightly underneath the angel's weight and I felt a cool, soft, firm hand on my forehead. "She's had a close call," he said. "This can't happen again. You must impress upon her the importance of that. This doesn't usually end well at all."

"OK, but for now, please, just fix her!"

"She was drained of quite a bit of blood. That's why she's so weak."

"So, what, you mean a vampire got her?"

"No, not a vampire. She tried to deal with a demon to find you and Sam. She botched the summoning ritual quite badly, I'm afraid, and the demon she called up … well, he wasn't exactly one to play by the rules."

"Son of a bitch."

"I don't know what his parentage has to do with anything."

"Never mind," Sam interjected. "What did he do to her?"

"He collected her blood. I'm not sure why he would do that except that hunter's blood is a pretty valuable commodity on the black market."

"She's not a hunter!"

"No, but she's a Winchester. That's good enough to mark the price up quite high, I would imagine."

"I don't know why we're sitting around here chatting about this instead of making her better. Come on, Cas, what's the hold-up?"

"I don't know what interrupted the exchange, but I'm quite certain this demon did not just let Caroline go when he was finished taking her blood. Do you know how many higher-order demons would do whatever it took to lay hands on a Winchester? I want you to understand how much worse this could have turned out to be; how much worse it probably would have turned out to be if something had not gone wrong. Or, in our case, right. You must watch her closely. She's on their radar. They have her essence. They could use it for any number of things, none of them good."

"You're talking blood magic," Sam said.

"The worst kind."

"So what do we do? How do we keep her safe? Do we go track her blood down and get it back? Come on, Cas, help us out here!"

"Dean, I've told you everything I know. Watch your sister. Do not let her out of your sight. Impress upon her the severity of this transgression, what it could have meant and what risks it poses now. I have to get back to Heaven. I will heal her and then I must go. I will be in touch."

Two cool fingers pressed into the center of my forehead, and I felt a wave of warmth radiate throughout my body. Suddenly I was able to open my eyes all the way. They met Castiel's. His were kind but stern, an odd combination that I think only he could have pulled off. "Hi," I said.

"Hello Caroline," he said. "Take care of yourself."

And with a flutter of unseen wings, he was gone. And I was sitting up in bed in my room at Bobby's house. And Sam and Dean were there.

And then without warning, I couldn't breathe. Panic gripped me for all of a second before I realized the cause of the suffocation: My mouth and nose were pressed against Sam's broad, hard chest as he enveloped me in a hug. When he pulled away, his hands gripping my shoulders so he could examine my face, I burst into tears of relief at the sight of him.

"Where _were_ you?" I demanded, my voice cracking. I looked to Dean, who was standing on the other side of the bed, studying me with guarded eyes that belied a hell of a mix of emotions. I could only pick out the main ones: worry, relief, and anger. I hoped he'd lead with the first two.

"Long story, Cal," Sam said, but I slapped my open palm against his chest, not willing to accept that.

"No! You were gone for a _month_ and I thought you were dead! You _owe_ me an explanation!"

Dean sat down on my other side and took my hand in his rough, strong one. "We ran into a little trouble, yeah. We had to go undercover. Deep, deep undercover. Vamp nest in Detroit was out of control; they were planning to take over the whole city and were kind of doing a damn good job of it. It got ugly. We had to … well, we got turned for a little while."

"You WHAT?"

"Don't freak; it's all fine now. We just had to infiltrate the nest, and the only way to do that was to become like them. It was all fine; we had a reversal spell and once we'd killed the head vamp, we got the hell out of there. But a few survived and came after us, so then we had to lead them on a wild goose chase. Couldn't risk bringing them back home to you and Bobby, could we?"

"You could've CALLED!"

"We did, Callie. By the time we did, YOU had disappeared," Sam said.

"What?"

"You don't remember? Baby, you left Bobby's two weeks ago. He didn't know where you were. Do YOU know where you were?"

I stared at Sam uncomprehendingly. "I found a spell. To, ah, call a demon. I was going to try to trap it and make it tell me where you guys were. That's … all I remember."

"And what made you think calling a demon was a good idea?"

Dean's tone told me that now that I was physically okay again, he was going to let a little of that anger seep to the surface. Typical.

I sighed. "I didn't think it was a _good idea_ , Dean," I said. "I thought it was my only option. The hunters weren't getting anywhere and I had to know if you guys were alive or dead. You would've done the same thing."

"And we're _adults_ , and we're _hunters_ , and we have the training to deal with the consequences when we make a stupid decision like that! What were you thinking, Callie? Cas says they're selling your blood on the frickin' demon black market! We don't even know what that could mean for you, but it sure as hell doesn't sound good. I can't _believe_ you!"

I didn't care that he was shouting at me. Right then, the sound of Dean's gruff, angry voice telling me off was music to my ears. He hadn't hugged me yet. I guess he didn't want to because he was too pissed off, but I needed to feel him, solid and alive and breathing. I pulled my left arm from Sam's gentle hand and stood up. Dean looked taken aback, mid-yell, and then I wrapped my arms around his middle and pressed my face into his shirt and squeezed him as hard as I could. A few seconds passed and I thought briefly that he was too mad at me to return the affection, but I should've known better. My big brother could be a jerk. He could be strict and tyrannical and unfair and insensitive and harsh and even a bit of a bully. But when it came right down to it, I had him wrapped around my little finger and I always had.

His arms came up and wrapped around my back and suddenly he was sitting on the bed and I was cradled in his lap and he was hugging me and murmuring in my ear. Phrases like "such a fucking stupid thing to do" and "strangle you with my bare hands" entangled with "missed you so much" and "safe now, baby doll" and "I've gotcha, no one's gonna touch you." I'm not even sure if he knew what his baseline message was. But I rested my head on my big brother's shoulder and let him rock me back and forth like he'd done when I was little, and I didn't care that I was fifteen and that I was still mad at them for disappearing on me like they'd done.

I had my brothers back. We'd deal with all the rest tomorrow.


	6. Chapter 6

**Hey! Thank you for the reviews! I'm so happy to have a few readers; makes the journey way more fun!**

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Some very good things happened because of my demon encounter … and a few not-so-good ones. In the former category was that Dean relented and decided to take me back on the road with them. Clearly his brilliant plan to distance me from them for my own safety was fatally flawed, after all, and I think part of him just wanted an excuse to backpedal without actually admitting he'd been wrong about the whole thing. Dean Winchester did not like to admit when he was wrong.

So there was that. I was back where I belonged, in the backseat of the Impala, my brothers in front, putting miles behind us and heading into questionable adventures that, while I wouldn't be allowed to actually participate in, I could hear about later, and that was always pretty cool. As long as the hunts weren't dangerous.

In the not-so-good category was that they had both taken the overprotectiveness thing to a whole new level. I mean, if before they were intrusive, now they were downright pathological. I couldn't turn around without bumping into one of them. I was no longer allowed to stay in the car on a standard food run or gas-station food-mart errand. When we took pit stops one of them _stood outside the door_ and waited for me, and then walked me back to the car. My complaints fell on deaf ears at first, and then, when the complaints became more frequent, more vehement, and more, well, whiny, they were crushed by a few choice threats from Dean about what he would do if he heard one more word about it.

He wasn't quite as forgiving as I'd hoped he might be, given that I felt I had had a pretty damn good excuse for doing what I'd done. ("Pulling that stupid stunt" had become the code phrase by which they both referred to it.) After the first night with all the warm fuzzies, he'd made it clear that he was not going to let it go any time soon, and maybe not in this lifetime. I'd put myself in danger, willingly and willfully, and that was number one on Dean's list of Things I Was Forbidden To Do.

That list seemed to be getting longer by the day.

He didn't even need to ground me this time, because my life had become the equivalent of confinement. I spent the days in whatever motel room we were staying in, listening to them bicker and research, counting the cracks on the plaster ceiling and watching daytime TV. When they left the room, I was to salt everything and lock the door and windows. Twice. If they came back and Dean happened to notice a salt line he deemed "too thin" or "phoned in," he would launch into a tirade I knew by heart about how I'd better fall in line and start taking my safety seriously or he was going to start cuffing me to the bed and salting around me himself before they left.

I was suffocating.

"I need to go for a walk," I announced one evening, rolling over on the motel bed to look at my brothers, who were discussing the latest case, which had something to do with a basement-dwelling monster that was preying on sorority girls at the local college. "The walls are closing in on me."

Sam didn't even glance up from his laptop screen but said, "You can ride with me when I go grab burgers. Give me ten minutes."

I groaned. "Ten minutes means an hour, and I'm so sick of burgers. I just want to take a walk. I won't go far. I'll go, like, to the end of the parking lot and back."

"Sorry, Cal, I'm in the middle of—Dean, wait a minute, check this out."

Dean stood up and went to look over Sam's shoulder, and I flopped back onto my pancake of a pillow.

Fifteen minutes later they left. I don't know what the big hurry was because I'd ceased to listen after my simple request to get out of the room for a few minutes had been shot down and I hadn't really been following this case to begin with. Why bother? It's not like I'd be allowed to help them any time soon.

Before they went, though, they gave me the same tired old rundown that I knew chapter and verse. I managed—just barely—to refrain from rolling my eyes. I mean, come on. Years on the road. I knew the drill. Salt. Doors locked. Windows bolted. No leaving the room. No letting anyone but them into the room. Answer my phone. Keep my gun nearby. Don't touch my gun unless I have to use it. Blah, blah, blah.

I made the mistake of saying that last part out loud when Dean was reminding me for the fourth time to make sure the salt lines on the windowsills were thick this time, not that half-ass sprinkle I'd done before.

He froze and pierced me with a look that made me squirm. "'Scuse me?" he demanded, and I didn't know what to say so I just met his gaze and tried to look innocent.

"If you're not going to take this seriously, your ass is back with Bobby before sunrise, you hear me?"

"I take it seriously," I said. "I just don't know why you can't trust me even a little bit not to get myself killed while you're away for an hour. I'm not stupid, Dean!"

"You make stupid choices; that's why."

Sam, standing by the door with a duffel slung over his shoulder, intercepted. "Guys, not now. Cal, no one is saying you're stupid. Dean, she knows what to do. Let's go before we lose this lead."

Dean nodded dismissively in Sam's direction, then turned back to me. "I don't want to see a single grain of salt out of place when we get back, do you understand me?"

I glared at him until Sam cleared his throat and shuffled his feet impatiently and it became clear that Dean's will pitted against my own could outlast the actual apocalypse, so I gave in for Sam's sake and muttered a "Fine. Yes."

The door slammed with a little more force than was entirely necessary, I thought. For a moment, as I listened to Baby's engine growl to life and then fade away as they pulled out of the parking lot, I felt a pang of regret. Every time they went on a hunt when I was younger, we'd have a little moment. It was silly, maybe, but I always felt better when my last interaction with them was a good one, even if it was just a side-armed squeeze from Sammy and a hair-ruffling from Dean. On the more dangerous hunts, there were sometimes kisses on the cheek, and once, even a full-fledged sit-down "I want you to know how much I love you" talk from DEAN, of all people. That time he really almost didn't make it back.

But these days the hunts were more frequent and hurried, and more often than not I got the lecture and the instructions and sometimes a pat on the shoulder and then they were off, into the night, and I'd be lucky if I got a phone call to tell me they were alive and safe and on their way back to me. And since this most recent time, when they were gone and I thought to my very core that they were gone for GOOD, I needed more. I didn't know how to tell them that without sounding like a weakling, but I needed the sense of security they'd given me before, when I was younger and less bound by the demands of being a smartass teenager.

I salted everything so Dean wouldn't have any excuse to yell at me, and then I went to bed and watched a few sit-coms on TV. I wanted to fall asleep, but I couldn't. Not until I knew my brothers were all right.

My phone buzzed on the table next to me. It was a text from Sam.

 **Pack up and meet us diner on corner.**

Knowing better than to argue with a direct order and knowing this must mean something had gone wrong, I immediately set to work throwing my few possessions into my bag. It took all of 30 seconds. Only then did I text him back.

 **U OK?**

I was already halfway across the room with my bag when he texted back:

 **Explain later. Come now.**

And so I did. I let the door slam shut behind me and only then remembered that I didn't have my weapon ready. The deep shadows of the parking lot, penetrated only by the eerie orange circles of arc sodium lights, reminded me of that. I'd been raised to sense danger, to expect it, and this was not exactly inspiring that security I'd been craving.

I bent over and unzipped my duffel, digging through it for my gun, the one I was forbidden to touch at some times and required to have at others. Such was the dichotomy of being Dean and Sam Winchester's little sister. My fingers had just touched the cool metal when I heard a noise behind me. I spun around and caught a confusing glimpse of glowing reddish eyes before I was knocked unconscious. The last thing I remember was crumpling to the pavement and watching with half-lidded eyes as my gun went skittering across the dark parking lot.

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 **I know, I know, cliffhangers. But the good thing about that is that I don't like to read them OR write them, so I'll likely have the next chapter up sooner than later. Please review!**


	7. Chapter 7

Know how I know my life is bizarre? I get knocked out on the daily. OK, maybe not daily, but it's not an uncommon occurrence.

I even remember the first time it happened. I was ten years old and sitting in the backseat of the Impala by myself while my dad and brothers were digging up a grave twenty yards away. I saw something moving toward them in the dark and instead of shouting to them like I should've done, I acted on impulse and dove out of the car ready to tackle the whatever-it-was. But because I was a little girl and it was not, it got the jump on me, spinning around before I made it three steps away from the Impala and whacking me over the head with something super hard. I'm still kind of foggy on what it was, or what it had to do with the bones my family was trying to salt and burn. They didn't tell me anything back then. (Even less than they tell me now.)

I slid to the ground like a wet noodle and the next thing I knew, I was cradled in Dean's arms in the backseat of the car as Dad sped along a dark highway. Not toward the hospital, mind you. Dad didn't _do_ hospitals. And, given the way he died, I couldn't really blame him anymore. No, we went back to the motel and they checked me for any signs of concussion and then Dad laid into me for disobeying them and getting out of the damn car in the first place. Sam jumped to my defense ("Dad, she's hurt. Can you go easy on her?") and Dean was annoyed ("Why the hell didn't you just yell for us, Callie; what were you thinking?"), but when Dad demanded that I get to bed and told me to expect a "reminder" in the morning of what happens when I don't follow the rules, Dean's jaw tightened and I knew he wanted to tell Dad to back off.

He didn't. But when Dad didn't follow through on the threatened spanking, I suspected that Dean had something to do with my reprieve. Dad wasn't one to make idle threats.

So being knocked out? It's a thing I do. And when I was leaving the motel the night I thought Sam had texted me to meet them at the diner down the street, and stupidly let my guard down to root around in my bag for my gun, I had come to terms with it, in a way, before I even hit the asphalt.

It was the waking up part I never could get used to. When you wake up, you never know what horror is waiting on the other side of your eyelids. While you were unconscious, you could've been dragged to the lair of some skeevy monster who's right that moment feeding on strips of your skin. Or dragged to Hell to be used as leverage so the King can lure your brothers into his trap. Or, UGH, kidnapped by a human perv whose intentions are even worse.

This time, my first thought when I came around was that it was that last thing, my personal worst fear. No matter what I've seen, what I know is lurking out there in the shadows, human creeps always scare me the most.

"Hey. Are you awake?"

I flinched away from the male voice, all of my instincts screaming at me that this was the enemy, that I had to get my strength back now so I could stand a chance against him.

"It's okay, I'm not gonna hurt you," the voice said.

It occurred to me with a twinge of surprise that my hands weren't bound together. There wasn't a gag in my mouth. I blinked a few times to clear my vision and realized that if I looked straight up I could see night sky, sprinkled with stars.

"I called 911; there should be cops and an ambulance on the way."

That got my attention. I snapped to and managed to focus on the face hovering over me a few feet away. It was a guy. A kid about my age, actually, with dark hair and really _really_ blue eyes and an expression of concern etched into his features.

"Cops?" I asked in a horrified whisper. "You called the cops?"

"Well … yeah. Someone attacked you. He knocked you out, stole your bag, and ran off. I had to do something."

I was struggling to sit up now, and the guy reached out to help me but backed off when I jerked my arm out of his grasp. "I've got it!" I said. The back of my head was singing. "How long ago did you call?"

The boy looked taken aback for a moment, then pressed a button on his phone and looked at it as the screen lit up his features enough for me to notice that he was _seriously_ cute. I refocused my attention.

"About fifteen minutes ago?" he said. "You've been out since then. I was on my way back from getting a drink when I saw him attack you." He held up an unopened Coke can as if to prove his sincerity. "He, uh, he saw me, he looked at me, and he had, um … _black eyes_. What the _hell_."

I realized then that I was lying in the middle of the motel parking lot, right where I'd been laid out. My mind reeled. Could you call and _cancel_ a 911 call? Probably not, especially after fifteen minutes. But I couldn't very well sit here and wait for the cops to show. They'd take me into custody, and then when Sam and Dean showed up to get me, _they'd_ be the ones in trouble. Winchesters did _not_ get involved with law enforcement. That was law. That was Winchester law. I'd broken Winchester law. I cringed at the imaginary Dean face that flashed up on the movie screen behind my eyelids.

There was a big lump on the back of my head, sending daggers of pain shooting into my actual _brain_ and making rational thought difficult. So when headlights washed over us, this guy whose name I didn't know and me, my first idea was that we had to run. I grabbed his arm and put all the urgency I could muster into my order: _"Get me inside."_

His own eyes widened, and he looked up at the approaching vehicle with almost as much apprehension as I was feeling. Then he took hold of my arms and helped me to my feet. The world spun but I managed, just barely, to stay in the here and now as he led me, hobbling, toward the door to his motel room, four doors down from ours. He pushed me in ahead of him and slammed the door behind us, throwing the deadbolt and latching the chain.

I sat down on the edge of the nearest bed and put my throbbing head in my hands. Jesus. The cops were sure to have seen us. I'd be lucky if I ever saw Sam and Dean again. I wanted to cry, but I was too wound up, waiting for the inevitable pounding of authority on the flimsy motel room door.

It came scarcely a minute later, but not in the form I had anticipated. It came in the form of my brothers' voices.

"Callie! It's me; open up if you can!"

That was Sam.

There was a brief scuffle, a barked order, and then the door flew open so hard the hinges splintered and the interior knob buried itself into the plaster of the adjacent wall.

The next thing I knew, Sam was hauling me up by the arm and pulling me toward the open door as Dean descended upon the boy with the blue eyes.

"Did you touch my sister? _Look_ at me, you sonofabitch, _DID YOU TOUCH MY SISTER_?"

"NO! No, man, I promise! I saw her get knocked out and I was trying to help! I was trying to—"

"Callie, are you okay?" Sam asked me, turning me forcefully away from the scene of our brother harassing the guy who had maybe just saved my life. "Look at me, sweetheart, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, I'm FINE. Dean! He didn't do anything! But the cops are coming."

"What?" Dean glanced at me from the other side of the room, where he had blue-eyed boy pinned against the wall and looking like he might pee his pants at any moment.

"He called 911; I was unconscious. We have to go!"

My brothers exchanged a look and then I was once more being hauled away with no choice in the matter. Sam deposited me in the backseat of the Impala with a sharp command to stay put before he followed Dean into our room to gather our stuff. Three minutes later we were peeling out of the parking lot and I was feeling sorry for the guy with the blue eyes who had done nothing but try to help and had gotten nothing in return except to be scared shitless by my terrifyingly overprotective big brother.

"Start talking, Callie," Dean demanded once we'd turned onto a brightly lit, fast-food-joint-littered highway, heading God knows where. "What happened?"

"I got a text from Sam to pack up and meet you guys at the diner. I was on my way."

"And what, you got jumped?"

"I didn't text you, Callie. Did you use our code before just blindly heading out by yourself?"

I bit my bottom lip. "No," I answered truthfully. "I just figured it was really you."

"You just figured?" Dean interjected, his voice raising and betraying his anger. "What is THAT? Is that what you've been taught, Callie? Is that how we raised you? To _just figure_ you're not stepping out into a trap? Huh? Answer me!"

"No."

"What was that?"

"No!" I said, louder. "No, I should always check."

"Damn straight you should always check. I'm driving your ass right back to Bobby's where you belong. You've proven nothing but that you can't follow even the simplest orders."

"That's not fair!" I said, stung by his words.

"No? Tell me how I'm wrong."

"I follow your stupid orders all day every day, so much so that I spend most of my time sitting in a nasty motel room watching daytime TV and wondering if I'm ever going to see you guys again! I wait and I worry and I obey like a good little soldier, but all I ever get from you is shit. I can't be good enough, Dean, there's no such thing with you."

"Watch it," Dean said in a dangerous tone. "You're crossing the line."

"What line? The line where I can't say what's on my mind because I might actually bring up a good point?"

"Callie…" Sam said quietly, trying to intercede. "This isn't the time for this."

"The hell it's not!" I yelled. "He clearly doesn't want me here and I can't do anything about that except to appease him. Next time we stop, I'm out."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam asked, clearly exhausted by the whole scene.

"I'm done with this shit. I'm done with Dean and you and Bobby and hunting and the whole deal."

"Oh, you gonna hop on with the first trucker you see at the next gas station?" Dean asked sarcastically. "Give me a break."

"That's exactly what I mean. Then you'll be rid of me and I can go off somewhere and have a normal life. It's a win-win."

"Cal, don't be ridiculous, this is—" Sam started, but Dean talked over him.

"You get out of this car at the next fuel stop, you're riding the rest of the way to Bobby's in cuffs," Dean said more directly.

"Fuck you."

"Say that again, we're going to have a problem."

I almost— _almost_ —had the guts to say it again. Instead, I muttered under my breath. "Fine. I'll keep my mouth shut till we stop and I can find my next ride."

And Dean, always wanting the last word, said, "Over my dead body … and yours."

We continued to ride along in angry silence.

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	8. Chapter 8

**Hi all, thanks for the reviews! You have NO idea how much they mean to me. (ERICA, MY AWESOMENESS, IS THAT YOU? Woman, I need an e-mail! I miss you!) Here is a little side-story/flashback, if you will. One thing that bothers me is that Callie's very existence screws around with the timeline of canon. It has to. But being a perfectionist, I'm having a little trouble swallowing that. Also, because this was sort of a spur-of-the-moment undertaking, I didn't plot it all out like I've done with most of my stories in the past, to avoid mistakes and inconsistencies. I guess I'll ask you what I'm asking myself: Take this for the AU that it is and understand that I have to do a little tinkering to make things work the way I want them to. Thank you for reading! And reviews make my day (and make me want to write!). The next chapter should be full-length and back to the main thread.**

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 _ **The Night Sam Left**  
_

The fight had been epic. Stunning. My almost-10-year-old brain couldn't quite wrap around what was happening, and I didn't have half the courage to step in the middle of it, so I curled myself into a tight ball in the corner next to one of the beds and covered my ears with my hands and squeezed my eyes shut tight as my family splintered. When it was over, and Sam had exploded through the door and into the night, and Dean and Dad started in on each other, I slipped out past them and ran after him.

I glimpsed him about a hundred yards away, walking fast and purposefully. I glanced apprehensively behind me at the motel room door just to make sure I wasn't being pursued. Of course, they hadn't noticed I was missing yet.

I would never catch up with Sam; he had legs the size of oak trees and I was a little kid, short for my age. "Sammy!" I choked out in a half-shout, half-stage whisper.

He spun around, and the moonlight struck his face in just the right way for me to see that he was crying. "Callie, get back inside, what are you doing?" he asked, a little rougher than he usually spoke to me. He reached me in three strides and knelt down on one knee so we were closer to eye level. "You're going to get in trouble, Cal," he said more gently.

"Where are you going?" I asked him. "You can't just leave. You can't leave Dean and me, even if Dad is being an asshole."

He smiled slightly at that, but it was a sad smile. He reached out to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. "I'm not leaving you guys," he said. "This isn't goodbye. Not to you, not ever. You hear me?"

"When are you coming back, then?"

"I … don't know. You heard Dad. I think it'll be a while. I'm not living life on his terms anymore and he'll never be okay with that, so he's not leaving me much of a choice. This is not how I wanted this to go, but … I just don't know what else to do. I know it's hard for you to understand right now."

"I'm coming with you," I said, and he took a deep breath and closed his eyes briefly.

"No. You're not."

"Yes. I am." I rolled my shoulders back and stood up as tall as I could, setting my jaw in that determined way I had learned from Dean. "I don't want to stay with them."

"Cal, sweetheart, it's not that I don't want you with me. Okay? But you belong here. Dad is Dad, and Dean is … they'll take good care of you, you know that. I'm not even sure where I'm sleeping tonight. I can't take you with me."

"I don't _care_!" I said, my bravado slipping a little as I recognized his no for what it was: solid.

" _I_ do," he countered. "That's why you're staying."

"You can't make me. I'll follow you. And if you lose me I'll just go my own way. You think I won't?" I challenged. My voice was wavering and I hoped he would mistake volume for strength of will.

"Come here," he said, drawing me into his arms and wrapping me up in a patented Sam bear hug. I struggled against him, knowing that he was just doing this to pacify me, to ease the sting of his rejection. I couldn't let him win, he would go and I would never see him again. I'd heard every single word they'd yelled at one another despite my hands being over my ears and I knew that they were both stubborn enough to stand their ground forever. For _EVER_. And I was losing a brother. I was _losing_ him. As the realization seeped through my bones I went limp in Sam's arms and allowed him to pick me up like a ragdoll. The dam behind my eyes broke and the tears started slipping freely down my cheeks.

"Please," I choked out. "Please don't leave, Sammy, please don't leave, please don't."

It dimly occurred to me that he was crying, too. His sobs were silent but they wracked his body, and his grip on me became so tight it almost hurt.

"I love you, baby girl," he said, his voice almost unrecognizable because it was muffled and choked with tears. "You know that, right? Tell me you know that. And if you ever need anything. _Anything_. I am just a phone call away."

"I need something _now_!" I protested. "I need you not to go!"

"I have to, Callie. You'll understand someday. I have to."

My protests became lost in loud, tearing sobs that echoed in the darkness. I don't know how long we stood like that, Sam holding me, one hand grasping me securely around the waist, the other tangled in my hair, both of us crying, him murmuring words of comfort and reassurance that I didn't, couldn't believe.

I was so distraught I almost didn't even notice when I was transferred from one set of arms to another, and suddenly I was weeping into Dean's shoulder instead of Sam's, and they were exchanging some words I couldn't hear over my own cries, and then I looked up and Sam was walking away, almost lost in the shadows already.

"No," I said in a broken whisper. "Dean, stop him."

My oldest brother gently shushed me, his glistening green eyes fixed stoically on the figure that was slipping farther and farther away from us.

After a few minutes he let me slide to my feet, and when I took a few steps in the direction Sam had gone, he caught my arm to stop me. "He'll be back, Callie," he said. "Family don't quit on family."

How right he was ... and how wrong.


	9. Chapter 9

**Thank you, thank you, thank you for the reviews! I really appreciate them and use them to fuel the fire. You guys are awesome.**

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We were two hours out from Bobby's when Dean got a phone call from the man himself, telling my brothers not to take me there. It seemed he'd been paid a visit by a few demons who were expecting me to show up there, demons who'd been the recipients of some of my black-market blood and wanted more. Probably the same thing the one who'd knocked me out back at the motel had wanted, although why he bolted instead of just killing the kid who found me in the parking lot was a mystery no one seemed excessively eager to solve. I guess we had bigger fish to fry.

Dean was in a foul mood. I mean, even for _Dean_ , Dean was in a foul mood. He was worried, I knew, because demons had some unknown use for me, and he was frustrated because the place we'd deemed our safe haven for most of our lives was proving to be not so safe anymore. And now he had nowhere to stow me so he and Sam could get back out on the road like I knew he wanted, sans me, of course, the trouble-magnet baby sister.

My mood matched his. I mean it was MY blood they were after. And where did he get off being pissy toward me like it was my fault? What he called a "dumbass move" (that being my ill-advised demon deal), I called a necessary attempt to save my brothers. He would've done the same thing for me or for Sam, and we wouldn't be giving him grief over it.

"When are we stopping?" I asked.

"When I feel like it," he said curtly.

"Dean, we've been in the damn car all day. And now that Bobby won't let me stay with him, we don't even have a destination in mind. Doesn't it seem stupid to keep driving aimlessly all night long?"

"You don't get a vote."

"That's fair," I said sarcastically. "Sammy, don't you want to stop for the night?"

Dean glared at me in the rearview. "Hey, shut it. _I'm_ driving, _I_ make the calls on when we stop and _if_ we stop. You're so tired, princess, you got a perfectly good place to stretch out right there."

Sam rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger like we were giving him a headache. "Guys, enough. Dean, how about we find a spot in the next town? It couldn't hurt to regroup, get some rest and maybe find a case."

"Oh yeah, we're going to just keep working random cases while half the damn population of Hell is after our little sister? Sorry, Sammy, this is top priority. No cases until we figure out what the hell that demon who took her did to her, how much blood he distributed, and what those black-eyed bastards are doing with it."

"Red," I offered.

"What?" they both asked, Dean snappishly, Sam confused.

" _Red_ -eyed bastards. I've told you. I saw red eyes before I got knocked out."

"Well either way, we need a game plan," Sam said. "Right now we've got nothing to go on. So we get a motel, get in touch with Cas, see if he can help get us some intel."

Dean grunted, but I could tell he was going to do as Sam suggested. I was grateful that Sam had that effect on our oldest brother, because if I had kept it up, Dean would've kept driving for a week without even a pee break just to show me he could. Sam's calm, reasonable approach was difficult to resist.

It hadn't always been that way, I reflected, settling back in my seat with the satisfaction of knowing that although I hadn't been the one to win the battle, at least I was getting what I wanted, which was _out of the freaking car_. When Dean was in Hell, Sam had been, frankly, kind of an asshole. I knew now it was mostly about the demon blood he was jacked up on, but at the time I just thought he blamed me for something … being alive when Dean wasn't, maybe. He ditched me at Bobby's for weeks on end with no contact but the occasional phone call to let us know he was alive. When he did swing by to visit or to take me on the road for a while, he was different. Harder, colder, angrier. A little scary. Once I'd walked in on him with a girl in our motel room. Hindsight being 20/20, I _also_ now know that that "girl" was the demon-bitch Ruby. And I know what they were doing. Well, at least the blood part. The rest … ugh. No one wants to think about their older brother doing _that_.

But when I walked in and froze at the scene before me, he yelled, cursed, and then he threw the TV remote. It didn't hit me (if he'd wanted to hit me, he could have, I reasoned; he was clearly just trying to scare me away, like you would an unwanted stray dog), and Ruby rolled over in bed, bare breasts fully on display, with this evil little smirk on her face and watched the scene unfold.

"Get the fuck _out_ of here, Callie! Go! NOW!" he shouted as I stumbled over my own feet in my haste to backtrack my way out of the room. My face was beet-red and Ruby's laugh followed me through the door. I ran through the parking lot and out to the street, blindly fleeing from what had just happened, and from the knowledge that the gentle kindness of the only brother I had left seemed just as dead as Dean.

He'd found me later at the diner down the street where I was drinking too much unlimited-refills coffee and getting the evil eye from the waitress for taking up a booth for too long. Sliding into the opposite bench, Sam stared at me for a long time before saying anything. I resolutely stared into my coffee mug.

"Cal, I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry you had to see that."

I scoffed. "Please. I've seen people with their guts spilling out of their throats. This was nothing."

"It is nothing, you're right," he said, more to himself than to me.

"Listen, Sam, I think it's time for me to go back to Bobby's. For good this time. You obviously don't want me with you; I'm just in the way. You think I don't see that? How you look at me? I don't want to keep you from doing what you want, living how you want."

I desperately wanted him to argue. I wouldn't have said it if I didn't expect him to tell me that was ridiculous, I was being stupid, of _course_ he wanted me and he was my big brother and we'd stay together no matter what because we were all we had left now. That he loved me. That he needed me. That we would live out Dean's legacy of putting family first, always.

Know what he did instead? He nodded. He didn't look at me when he did it, and a couple of locks of hair fell from behind his ears and obscured his eyes so I couldn't really read the expression in them, but the nod was all I needed. And then, as if he didn't even notice that he had just shattered what was left of my heart into a million pieces, he flagged down the waitress and asked her for a cup of coffee. To go.

Now, sitting in the backseat of the Impala with both of them solid and real and damaged but _right where they should be_ , I felt a surge of love for my brothers. Even the cranky one. Even the one who'd once thrown a remote at me and dumped me without a second thought because his addiction had become everything.

I wondered for a moment what was happening out there with my blood. If demons were drinking it, if my blood caused them to turn into something so unlike themselves they became unrecognizable. Maybe my blood made them _good_. Wouldn't that be a twist? But whatever. I scooted up in my seat enough to lay my head on Sam's shoulder.

He gave me a surprised but pleased smile and reached over to tousle my hair.

"What's that about?" he asked.

"I just like you guys," I said. "Especially when Dean's not being such a dick." I ignored the glare Dean shot my way.

"Well you're not so bad yourself," Sam said.

A few minutes later, Dean pulled the car into the parking lot of another anonymous motor lodge, one in an endless string of them that made up our lives. "All right," he said. "Enough with the love fest. Grab the bags while I check in."

But before he got out, he brushed a quick kiss against my cheek.

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	10. Chapter 10

**A special thanks to delacre for her kind reviews and helpful insights. I hope this does justice to what you wanted to see.**

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You'd think I would have learned to sleep through all kinds of noise over the years, given my upbringing, but when my brothers were arguing, I couldn't. It scared me, even if it was nothing, a minor blip on the screen of our lives. Because I'd been left before, and once you're left, you're left with a fear of being left again, and in my case it inspired in me the kind of abject panic a person might experience, like, mid-airplane crash, or if someone pulled a gun on them in a dark alley. It wasn't a normal response, but it was _my_ response. And they knew how much I hated it, so they often saved their arguments (fights) for when I was asleep. Unfortunately for them, this time they only thought I was asleep when they got into it about the blood thing.

My blood was being circulated among demons. That's really all we knew. We didn't know what they were doing with it. Spells, maybe. And that was terrifying because we really didn't know enough about blood magic to grasp the extent to which they could use that against me. And then Dean said something that shocked me because it had been so long since any of us had dared to go there.

"Listen, you may think that as a blood junkie you're an expert in this kind of thing but we're on the other side of the fence now. If demons got a taste for her blood, we're in a world of hurt and you know it."

I sat up in bed and they both looked at me from the little table across the room, startled to see me awake and, well, kind of pissed off.

"Don't call him that!" I said, leveling Dean with a glare fit to kill. "It's been a long time, Dean, you have no right to use that against him anymore!"

"Nobody asked you," Dean snapped. "You're supposed to be asleep."

"Like that's so easy when you guys are up all hours throwing insults at each other? I don't think it's me that needs sleep."

"Cal, it's fine."

"No, Sammy, it's not! He's been an asshole to both of us for weeks."

"Watch your mouth," Dean said, standing up and crossing the room in three strides. "You need to remember who's in charge around here, kiddo, and stow the attitude. Now."

"Look who's talking! You get to have an attitude because you're the oldest but I don't because I'm just a kid? Well I'm not just a kid, Dean, I'm a Winchester. And you don't get to call Sam out on the blood drinking because you don't get it … because _you weren't there_."

And that was the thing, wasn't it? Sam got addicted to demon blood when Dean died. And if _I_ could forgive him for that, for all the things that transpired in those horrible lost months, then Dean sure as hell should be able to. So I held tight to my courage and met Dean's icy green glare and didn't look away even when he pointed a finger in my face and demanded that I lie down and go to sleep or else. (I didn't challenge him by asking what the "or else" might entail, but I did wait until he had removed himself from my personal space before I complied.)

* * *

My brother was dead.

My other brother was drinking demon blood.

He was exorcizing demons with his mind.

I had no idea what to do.

So one night, when he didn't come back to the motel, I went to a bar. Because that's what sixteen-year-old girls do when their brothers go off the deep end and they want to forget their troubles, right? Well, maybe not. But it was what Dean always did when he was fuming or needed to escape, and if it worked for him... at any rate, I couldn't spend another night waiting up for Sam, hoping that when he finally did show up he would be the Sammy I knew and not the cold, distant, unpredictable, hopped-up blood addict I'd come to recognize in the past couple of weeks since I'd witnessed one of those grisly acts.

The bar was loud and skeevy and I felt very young and very vulnerable despite the gun in my purse and the silver knife in a holster around my thigh. But I sidled up to the bar as if this were something I did every single night and slid onto a stool and waited for the bartender to notice me. Before he did, a man with a receding hairline and the beginnings of a beer gut plopped down next to me, smiling, and caught the barkeep's attention. "What's your poison?" he asked me.

"Um. I … beer?" I said uncertainly, wishing I'd thought this through better.

"One draft, one Zippy's Special," the man told the bartender.

And when the drinks came, I realized that the "special" was intended for me. The balding dude took the beer stein and slid a tall, slim glass full of brown liquid (and topped with a cherry) toward me.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Zip makes 'em for all the pretty ladies," he said. "Try it; you'll like it."

I sniffed delicately at the drink. It smelled … potent. I hesitated. And then an image of Sam with blood smeared all over his mouth and chin flashed before my eyes and I realized that whatever was in this drink, it wasn't potent _enough_. I started drinking.

By the time I'd finished my first Zippy's Special, another one had magically appeared on the bar in front of me, and I barely noticed when I started in on it, too. The balding guy was named Steve, because of course it was. Aren't all random dudes who hit on underage single girls at bars named Steve? The more I drank, the more I liked Steve. He was funny. Or, at least he wasn't _not_ funny. And he gave me compliments. And he didn't talk about demons or monsters or dead brothers or lost ones.

After the third—fourth? Surely not—Zippy's concoction, I was finding it difficult to hold my head up. When I found myself following Steve outside into the chilly night air, it also occurred to me that I was having trouble walking. He slipped an arm around my waist and I leaned gratefully into him as we headed across the gravel lot toward what I assumed to be his pickup truck. And that's when Steve suddenly hit the ground and skidded on his ass about ten yards, coming to rest with his back against a blue Chevy. What?

I looked groggily around and my vision cleared enough to make out Sam, shaking out the fist that had just slammed into Steve's jaw.

"Callie, get in the car," he said to me, and his voice was hard and shaking with barely suppressed rage.

"Sam?" I asked, a hysterical note in my voice. "What are you doing? What…"

"CAROLINE, I SAID GET IN THE CAR—NOW."

I maybe should have argued a little more, but I was scared. For the first time in my entire life, I was scared of _Sam_. He didn't look like himself. The fury in his eyes, the way he carried himself … I wasn't entirely sure he wasn't about to kill Steve. I backed up until my butt collided with the car Sam was driving these days (he refused to touch the Impala, and I was sad and glad in equal measure), and I fumbled with the door handle, which seemed to be an unreasonably complicated mechanism.

I'm not sure what happened outside the car, because once I was in the backseat, I lay down with my face pressed into the leather upholstery and began to cry. I cried for Dean, who should have been there, and for Sam, who was, and wasn't. For Steve, who was probably being beaten to a bloody pulp, and for myself.

And then I passed out.

When I woke up, I was being carried through the door of the motel and deposited on one of the beds like a sack of flour. Dean would have removed my shoes, tucked me under the covers. Even when he was pissed at me he did those things, though often after I was already asleep. (He had to keep up appearances, of course.) I managed to hoist myself up onto one elbow. "Sam?" I asked in a faint, weak voice. "What did you do to that guy?"

"I just gave him a little advice," he said gruffly, rummaging around in his duffel bag. "Told him to stick to girls who are of age. I'm not sure he heard me, though; he was real worried about his broken nose."

My heart sped up a little. That sounded so … cold. "You shouldn't have done that," I said. "I had it under control."

He stopped what he was doing to fix me with an icy glare. "You had nothing under control, Callie. You _never_ have anything under control. You want to be taken seriously but when given half a chance you act out like a little girl in desperate need of attention, and you don't care if that attention is positive or negative. Dean gave into it all the time. I'm not going to."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that tonight was strike one for you."

"Strike one?"

"Yes. You reel it in now and you'll never have to find out what happens at strike three."

His gaze caught and held mine, and I felt a shiver rattle through my bones. I tried to hide it, to avoid showing him that he was scaring me. Finally, he broke the eye contact and disappeared into the bathroom to shower.

I rolled over in the bed (my stomach rolled around fitfully as I shifted positions, and I was pretty sure I would have to throw up at some point, stupid Zippy's Specials) and stared at the ceiling. "Oh, Dean," I said in a broken whisper. "I don't know what's wrong with him. What do I do?"

If he'd been in Heaven, I could have convinced myself that maybe he heard me, at least. I didn't think they'd deliver messages to Hell, though.

I fell asleep (or passed out, as it were) with tears drying on my cheeks.

* * *

 **Please review if you're still reading! I love to hear your thoughts!**


	11. Chapter 11

**Oh my gosh, y'all ... this one just got dark. I'm just the messenger, though, okay? ;) PRETTY PLEASE review if you read, and let me know what you think of this little twist. Don't worry, there will still be flashbacks/brother-and-sisterly stuff interwoven with the new little plot hook. Honestly, I wasn't expecting that.**

 **And just to be safe: Potential trigger warning applies.**

* * *

"Where the hell were you?"

I jumped a little at the sound of Dean's voice as I walked back into our motel room. He was standing next to the window giving me That Look I knew so well. I held up my can of soda and bag of M&M's as if in surrender. "I went down to the vending machine, jeez. I've been gone like less than a minute."

He tossed something toward my head and I ducked blindly and threw a hand up to catch it at the same time. My phone.

"You forgot this. I seem to remember telling you just last week that next time I found it not on your person I was going to have it surgically attached to your goddamn hand. It's already dark outside. Why didn't you ask me before you left?"

"Why, did you want something?" I asked a little sassily, knowing full well what he meant.

"Callie Winchester, so help me…" He took a deep breath and ran a hand down his face in frustration. "You _know_ you don't leave this room without telling me. Especially now. How many times do I ask nicely?"

I bit my lip in mock consideration of this favorite question of his that was nothing but a thinly veiled threat. "Ummm … Zero?"

He snapped his fingers close to my face and placed a finger on my nose. "Not funny, smartass. Once. I ask nicely _once_. And I think we've gone way past that number on this issue. The next time you leave this room without permission from me or from Sam, I don't care if your hair is on fire and you need to jump in the freaking _pool_ to put it out, I will string you up by your toenails, you understand me?"

"You were asleep! I thought I could manage a walk to the corner for a snack without waking you up; I mean God knows you need some sleep, Dean, you're so pissy lately and you're on our cases like it's your job!"

I started to walk away but he caught my elbow. "I _said_ , do you understand me?" he repeated, his words clipped.

"Yes! Fine, I hear you, damn." He released me and I reached up to rub my arm where his hand had gripped too hard.

"You better. And I'll take those," he said, snatching the M&M's from my hand. I opened my mouth to protest but he raised an eyebrow in silent challenge and I decided I didn't stand much of a chance against Dean in the mood he was in. I pouted as he sat down at the table, tore open my candy, and tossed a handful into his mouth before he started punching keys testily on Sam's laptop.

"Where's Sam, anyway?" I asked after a few minutes.

"He thinks there's a case in this town; he went to interview a couple of locals."

"But you said no cases until—"

"I know what I said," he snapped, betraying his irritation at our brother. "Sam listens just about as good as you do."

I lay back on the bed and stared at the water-stained plaster ceiling. "So, you're edgy," I said tentatively after a few minutes of only the clacking of the keyboard breaking the silence.

"Maybe if my little brother and sister didn't go out of their way to make me worry all the damn time I'd be a little more easygoing," he responded.

"You can't blame me for what Sam does. Besides, he's a grown man. When are you gonna stop worrying about him?"

Dean didn't miss a beat. "When I'm dead."

I rolled over onto my side to look at him, curious. "Really? I mean, did you really stop? When you … _were_?"

His fingers froze on the keyboard and he raised an eyebrow at me. "What are you trying to ask me, Cal?"

"Did you, you know, think about us, while you were downstairs? Worry about us? Wonder if we were … looking for you or trying to find a way to get you out? Did you even remember us? Or was it like all you could focus on was what was happening to you there and then? Is that what Hell is?"

"You wanna tell me why you're asking me these questions?"

"You wanna tell me what Hell was like?"

"No, as a matter of fact, I don't. It's not exactly a bedtime story, Callie, and it's sure as hell not something I like to revisit when I can help it."

"I know. I just … sometimes talking about stuff helps."

He looked mildly amused. "Oh, so you're gonna play therapist with me now?"

"Dean. It's been months. I know you still have nightmares about it. I um, I hear you," I gestured to the small, dank walls that surrounded us. "Close quarters, ya know?"

He looked thoughtful but didn't say anything, so I continued.

"Sammy hears you too. He won't let me ask you about it, though. Says you'll talk when you're ready. But he's not here right now and I'm making an executive decision."

He huffed a laugh and his eyes softened. "Baby doll, listen. I appreciate you being concerned about me, I really do. But I'm fine. I'll admit it took me a while to get back to myself, and I know that was pretty rough on you. But that's in the past, and I don't want you to worry about me, okay? That's not your job."

"But it's yours?" I challenged.

"To worry about you and Sammy? Hell yeah. Always has been, always will be. Now, are we done with the third degree?"

"I didn't get any answers," I said, frowning.

"Nope, not from me, not about that, not ever. I want you thinking about math tests and wardrobe choices and reality TV shows and …"

"Boys?"

"Oh, hell no."

I smiled. "Don't worry, it's not like I ever get a chance to meet one anyway," I said. "And even if I did, you and Sam would scare him away."

"Who me? I'm a teddy bear," Dean said, giving me his stoniest glare and making me laugh.

"The guy who saved me the other night … you think he'd describe you that way?"

"I was being cautious."

"You shoved him into a wall. I think he peed himself."

Dean smiled. "Good, then I did my job."

A few minutes of silence passed, and I ventured one more attempt. "Dean, if you ever do decide you need to talk about it? I'm a good listener."

He studied me carefully for a long moment, his green eyes betraying nothing of what was going on inside his head. Then without warning he stood up and walked over to me. Bending over, he planted a firm kiss right in the middle of my forehead. "Thanks, doll." And then he walked over to the bathroom to shower before bed. "Oh yeah," he said just before closing the door. "Don't you touch my M&M's."

* * *

When Dean had come back from Hell, it had taken me a while to believe it was real, that he wasn't going to blink and reveal black eyes, or disappear in a puff of smoke, or that I wasn't going to open my eyes and realize it was just another dream like those I'd been having ever since he was ripped away from us. Sometimes I wasn't sure I was over it even now. His first night back I'd held him so tight and with such wretchedness that he ended up falling asleep next to me on my bed at Bobby's house, his arm wrapped protectively around my shoulders and my hands clutching double fistfuls of his tee-shirt. I remember that when I opened my eyes in the morning my hands ached and I had to forcefully pry them open—the entire night I had not released that iron grip I had on my brother.

I was finally beginning to believe that he was back for good, that Sammy was better, that we could resume our not-so-normal normal existence.

But then had come the red-eyed demon. And with it had come the blood trades. Three, so far, the most recent just last night in the alcove next to the vending machines.

Sitting up, I made sure I didn't hear the Impala's engine roaring into the parking lot outside and that the shower water was on. Then I rolled up my sleeve slowly and examined the barely scabbed-over gash that extended almost the whole length of my forearm, right along the vein. He had sliced it clean and bottled it up in a large clear vial with a cork stopper. And then he'd smiled at me, his red eyes flashing briefly but brightly as if to remind me, as if I _needed_ a reminder, of what he was, and what he could do.

Before he left, he handed me a vial, identical to the one that he'd filled from me, this one full of a darker, deeper-colored liquid. I didn't want to take it, but my hand betrayed me.

When I drank it, tears streaming down my cheeks, I told myself it wasn't demon blood at all.


	12. Chapter 12

**Hey, sorry for the delay in posting! I got lost in reading instead of writing for a while. I hope I didn't lose anyone. Please let me know what you think of this one. Reviews mean the world to me!**

* * *

The thing about being addicted to demon blood is that it makes you feel like shit. Well, not at first. At first you feel on top of the world, strong, fierce, able to conquer anything and everything. But that lasts all of half an hour before you crash. With the crash comes headaches, nausea, and a general, all-encompassing feeling that you have just let down everyone who loves you, all at the same time. The first few times I didn't know well enough to hide the high, so I was bombarded with questions about why I was so hyper, why I wasn't sleeping, why my cheeks were so flushed, why I wanted to go for a run at 5 in the morning. Then one day, after sucking down a vial in the women's restroom of a gas station, I caught a glimpse of myself in the rusted and cracked bathroom mirror. My eyes were too bright, my skin a fevered pink, and there was a drop of dark red at the corner of my mouth that I brushed away with the back of my hand with a start, like even looking at it for too long was going to make me crazy.

I stared at my face in the mirror for a long time, my horrified expression looking back at me. And when there was a sharp knock on the door, I very nearly screamed.

"Callie, you're taking forever in there. Didja forget how to go, fall in, what?"

Dean. I caught my breath and pressed my hand against my pounding heart. "Classy," I called back, hoping he couldn't hear the tremor in my voice. "I'll be out in a minute; meet you in the car."

"Yeah, that's happening," he scoffed, reminding me that I basically wasn't allowed to breathe without a brother within arm's reach these days. It made for a very inconvenient addiction, this demon thing of mine. Already I was having to sneak around when the demon showed up for the exchanges, and sooner or later (God, let it be later—much, much later), I was going to get caught. I was surprised I hadn't been already: I was a shitty sneaker, and Sam and Dean were light sleepers.

The thought of them finding out what I was doing made my stomach twist into a tight knot. I ran a wet paper towel over my face and took a deep breath to try to center myself before stepping out into the blinding sunlight. For a moment Dean eyed me and my panic returned because he looked suspicious.

"You okay?" he asked, squinting at me appraisingly, his jaw set firmly.

"Yes!" I said. Oops, too enthusiastic. "I mean, yeah. I'm great. Fine, I mean. I'm good."

I ducked when he reached a hand out and tried to press the back of it against my forehead. "Hey, stop it. What are you doing?" I demanded.

"You look weird," he said. "And you're acting weirder than usual."

"I'm not sick," I said, still dodging his persistent hand. Finally he rolled his eyes and grabbed me by the arm to hold me steady while he checked to see if my face was warm.

"You don't feel feverish," he said, more to himself than to me.

"Duh," I said. "I told you I'm peachy. Can we go now?"

As I followed him to the car I breathed a sigh of relief. My arm throbbed from where Dean had grasped it, the cut underneath my flannel shirt sleeve reacting angrily to the touch. I'd been wearing unseasonably warm clothing for a while now, hiding the cuts on both arms where the demon was draining my veins. I was careful to keep the wounds clean, applying disinfectant every time I got out of the shower. The last thing I needed was for the boys to see. It's not like I could claim ignorance while sporting two fresh gashes four inches along both arms.

Besides, even if I could come up with a decent cover, some freak accident that might be remotely believable if only because I was known for being seriously accident-prone, Dean would flip his shit. Hiding injuries was pretty high up on his list of Don'ts, and I had a really vivid memory of learning that lesson second-hand when I was little—seven or eight, maybe.

 _When I pushed open the door, about to play my I-need-the-bathroom-because-I'm-younger-and-have-a-small-bladder card, Sam was standing shirtless in front of the bathroom mirror, twisting around as he tried to get a better view of his back—where there was an ugly, mean-looking puncture wound just below his right shoulder blade._

" _Hey!" he protested, scrambling for his wadded-up undershirt in a belated effort to hide what I'd already seen. "Don't you knock?"_

" _Sammy, your back!" I gasped. "Are you okay?"_

" _I'm fine, Cal. It looks worse than it is. Listen." He stepped forward and put both hands on my shoulders, bending down to look me straight in the eyes. "Don't mention this to Dean or Dad. Or Bobby." I frowned, trying to pull away so I could move around him to get a better look at the wound. He wouldn't let me budge, keeping his eyes trained on mine, his brows knit together earnestly._

" _But it looks really bad! Are you sure you don't need stitches or—or medicine, or something?"_

" _No, it'll heal on its own, all right? I'm doing all those things Dean and Dad would tell me to do. Now, I don't want to bother them with this. You can be my secret keeper, can't you?" When I didn't answer right away he prompted me. "Callie? Can't you?"_

 _I sighed. "Fine, okay," I said. "But if they find out and you get yelled at, don't tell them I knew."_

 _He grinned at me and straightened up, ruffling my hair affectionately. "Are you kidding, I would never throw my favorite sister under the bus. Now get out of here and let me finish getting dressed. And knock next time, would ya?"_

 _I almost forgot about it until a couple of days later, when Sammy got sick. Vomiting, spiking a fever … Dean thought it was the flu at first, and ordered me to stay away so as to prevent me from catching it. But when he went on a run to the drugstore for supplies, I sat next to my brother on the bed and held his dry, hot hand. He'd been asleep almost all day, but when he opened his eyes and saw me there, he licked his lips with what appeared to be a great effort and muttered the word "Water."_

 _I ran to fill a cup from the tap and brought it back to him. When I tried to help him sit up enough to drink, my hand pressed against his shoulder and he cried out in pain. Horrified and startled, I jerked my hand away. He flopped weakly back onto the bed, and I gently urged him onto his side. Then, shakily, I managed to pull his hot and rumpled shirt up enough to glimpse the wound. My stomach turned when I saw it. It was bandaged, but the bandage was soaked through with an oddly colored fluid. The skin around the tape securing the bandage was a streaky, blotchy scarlet, warm to the touch._

 _I burst into tears. Sam's eyes were closed but he was murmuring words of comfort that didn't make much sense, so I wasn't even sure how aware he was of what was going on. When I heard the Impala's engine, I ran from the room in my bare feet and ran out into the parking lot, too upset to wait a second longer than I had to to get my brother the help he had needed for days._

 _Dean got out of the car, scowling paternally and about to scold me for standing by myself in the middle of the parking lot in the middle of the night in my pajamas, but when he registered that I was sobbing, he was at my side in a flash, scooping me up in one arm, his other hand going reflexively to his waistband, where I knew a weapon was at the ready. Even as he picked me up, he was poised to go into hunter mode, to take down the unseen monster._

" _What?" he demanded. "Talk to me, baby, what's wrong?"_

 _I was crying too hard to make myself understood. "S-S-Suh-Sam!" I finally managed._

 _That's all he needed. We were inside and I was set on my feet as Dean flew to our brother's side. He felt his head, peeled back his eyelids to check for a reaction. When he got a few cranky mutters in response, seeming to confirm that Sam was, indeed, alive, Dean looked to me._

" _Callie, what is it?" he asked._

" _H-h-his b-b-back."_

 _Confusion flickered in Dean's green eyes but he rolled Sam onto his left side and pulled up his shirt as I had done …_

" _Oh, my God. Son of a bitch._ Shit _, Sammy!"_

 _His reaction scared me more than the sight of the clearly badly infected wound. He usually at least tried to keep his cursing toned down in front of me._

 _The next thing I knew, he was ordering me to get in the car. I did, and from the backseat I watched him half-carry, half-drag our giant brother to the Impala. He loaded him in next to me, face down, and with no further instructions jumped behind the wheel and peeled out of the parking lot. We made it to the hospital in record time._

 _It was a bad infection, septic, and it could have killed him. It could have killed him. Being his secret keeper could have killed him. I never really got over that, the knowledge that keeping a secret for my brother from the rest of my family could have resulted in his death. Days later, when Sam was better and Dean had ripped into him for hiding an injury and threatened to kill him if he ever did that again, I climbed into Dean's lap and, against my better judgment, confessed my foreknowledge of Sam's secret. I think on some level I hoped he would get angry, yell at me, smack me, something … so that the heavy weight that had settled on my conscience could ease up. He didn't get mad, but he did give me the lecture of the century. The dangers of secrets, the importance of openness to the family bond. And I cried and I apologized for almost getting Sammy killed, and he kissed my hair and reassured me that it hadn't been my fault but that next time, next time I would know better…_

And now here I was with this secret of my own, eating away at me like a septic wound, and there was no way I could tell them, _no way_ because we'd already been down this path and it had almost destroyed us all.

I was going to just have to handle it on my own. Fight the addiction, fight the demon who kept showing up, like the worst kind of magic, just when I was at farthest tether of my willpower.

I was going to have to save my own ass this time, because they would hate me if they knew.

I curled up on the backseat of the Impala and pulled restlessly at the cuffs of my sleeves.


	13. Chapter 13

I guess it figures that around the same time Dean loosened up on my restrictions a little is when I got caught. Fortunately for all of us, it wasn't by Dean. I could still remember his reaction when we'd first found out about Sam's problem. I'd screamed when the first punch landed, and started to cry in earnest when the second one did.

" _If I didn't know you, I would wanna hunt you."_

Those words had chilled me to the bone; now they filled me with a desperation, a panic born of knowing that I would lose my brother over this. He wouldn't abide the same betrayal a second time, by the sibling who'd been by his side through the entire Sam thing. I'd hugged him tight after we shut Sammy in the panic room and he'd clung to me, pressing his lips into the top of my head, and I could feel him trembling underneath his flannel shirt. It was killing him, doing this thing that had to be done.

He would never forgive me if I put him through that again.

Who would've thought anything life-altering, or bad, or even remotely interesting would happen when I was on library detail? I was sitting at a table in the center of the room, my eyes glazing over the words of the text in front of me as I searched for anything that might help the boys gank this mythological creature that had killed four people in the tiny town we were currently crashing. I'd been at it for two hours, and I had nothing.

Sam and Dean had left me there and gone out to talk to the victims' families. It being broad daylight, and a library, and maybe because Dean was getting as sick of shadowing me as I was of being shadowed, I'd been permitted this small liberty. And I might have enjoyed it except for one thing.

I was jonesing. Big-time.

My demon—when had I started thinking of him that way?—had been a no-show for a week, and it had been three long days since I'd polished off the last of the vials he'd left me with. I was getting desperate. I'd passed jittery long ago and was now well on my way to nervous breakdown. At some point, I feared I was going to have to go out and actively seek out a demon to kill and drink from. The thought was always there, dancing in the back of my mind, incredible but possibly a very real potential outcome.

I didn't realize I had pushed my sleeve up and was picking absently at the scabbed-over cut on my left arm until it started to bleed. Bright drops of crimson seeped slowly to the surface, and my heart pounded with a horrible desire.

When a hand landed on my shoulder I let out a strangled cry, clapping my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming outright. Call me a model library patron. I spun around to see Sam standing over me. His eyes were amused at first, and I could tell he was about to comment on my jumpiness, but then his gaze came to rest on the cut I'd been picking at. I fumbled with my sleeve, trying to tug it down to cover what he'd already seen.

Without a word, he pulled out the chair next to mine, sat down, and grasped my wrist, pulling my shirt sleeve all the way to my elbow and exposing the not-yet-healed wound, a long, crusty gash which looked stark and ugly in the overhead fluorescents. I struggled against his grip but he held me there easily, and when I forced myself to meet his eyes I wished I hadn't. He was giving me that Sam Look. The one that was probing and earnest, his brows knit together and his eyes sharp and direct, not so much questioning as insisting on answers, and truth.

"Sammy, you're hurting my wrist," I lied. He wasn't, but I knew that would make him let go. He did, and I jerked my arm back and pulled my sleeve down. His gaze didn't falter.

"What is that?" he asked, his voice quiet (he was a good library patron, too) but stern.

"It's nothing."

"Callie."

"It's nothing, okay? It's just a cut; it's healing!"

"I can see that. It's also not the first cut I've seen in my lifetime, and so I can tell it's been reopened at least once, maybe a few times. It's deep. _And_ ," he added pointedly, turning my face toward him and pausing until I reluctantly met his eyes. "It was deliberate."

I didn't say anything. I didn't want to lie outright, and it was clear he knew what he was talking about. My family, ladies and gentlemen, the world's foremost wound experts.

"So, what, are you cutting yourself? Is that what this is?" he prompted when the silence had gone on long enough for him to be sure I wasn't about to reveal all of my own accord.

I shot him a withering glance. "Of course not," I said. "Why would I do that?"

He shrugged. "I don't know, Cal, I mean, some people—"

"Not me. That's not … no. I'm not cutting."

"So then give me an explanation that I can swallow; otherwise I'm going to have to go with the most obvious one."

"I don't know, Sam, do we have to talk about this here?"

He glanced around at the empty rows of tables, the tall and dusty stacks. "We have to talk about this," he said. "We do it here and now, and you be straight with me, or we can go back to the motel and fill Dean in. I'm sure he'd be very interested."

"Is that a threat?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "It's whatever you think it is. Decide. You've got ten seconds."

I took a deep breath, feeling trapped. The seconds ticked by, at least nine of them, and then I opened my mouth and out spilled the most obvious-sounding lie I've ever told, especially considering I had just vehemently denied this very accusation. "Okay, you're right. I cut myself. It was just a couple of times and I won't ever do it again so please please please don't make a big deal out of it."

His eyes bore into mine and I knew, _knew_ , he was gonna call me on the utter bullshit of that confession, but maybe I'm a better liar than I think I am, or maybe the truth was just too far outside the realm of things he could fathom. Either way, when he finally spoke, he said, "Why?"

My mind spun. I didn't know much about self-harm, the whys and wherefores, and most of my life I had spent avoiding physical pain at all costs because frankly I had kind of a low threshold.

Sam was looking closely at my face, considering. "I know you've had a rough time lately, Callie. I get that, I do. But this is not a healthy way to deal with your problems."

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, feeling the guilt wash over me under his concerned stare.

"You can talk to us, you know," he said. "I guess it seems like we've got too much going on sometimes and that must be really tough, but Callie, you are our priority. You know that, right? We'll always find time for you."

"I know, Sam. Please, just … don't?"

"Promise me."

"Huh?"

"Promise me you won't do this anymore." He tapped my arm lightly to indicate what he meant by "this."

"I promise," I said almost too quickly. "And you promise me, too."

"What's that?"

"That you won't tell Dean."

He hesitated for a beat too long, and my stomach dropped. Sammy might buy this cutting thing, but Dean most certainly would not. He would get to the bottom of it and I would get locked in the panic room to dry out like Sam, screaming and hallucinating and almost dying just for the lack of a hit. It's not like I was exorcizing demons with my mind or anything; my own little— _problem_ —was _way_ less serious than Sam's had been. I just liked the buzz. The sudden wash of power and strength. It was nothing to them, but to me it had become very important. I wanted it. I needed it. Dean would make it stop.

"Sam," I urged. "You can't tell Dean."

He sighed. "All right. You quit it now, I won't tell him. If I even suspect something's up with you, though, all bets are off. Got it?"

I nodded, relieved.

* * *

Late that night I awoke to my phone buzzing a text alert under my pillow. Sitting up in bed, I glanced toward the open door to the room where my brothers slept.

The text was from a blocked number: **Thirsty?**

My heart soared. I hastily typed a "yes!" and threw the covers off my body, almost forgetting to be quiet as I bolted out of bed and felt my way through the darkness toward the door to the outside. I left it open just a crack so I wouldn't have to use the key when I came back and risk the noise. Then I tiptoe-ran down the concrete breezeway toward the little alcove where the vending machines stood.

He was there. My demon. I hated the thrill that went through my body at the sight of him. It made me feel sick, and ashamed. But to hell with that, because he was smiling at me, holding out a fresh vial of blood. I wasted no time, snatching it from his hand and prying off the stopper, then tossing it back like an alcoholic would take a shot of liquor.

Instantly I felt the warmth course through my body, and suddenly the frayed edges that had been my reality since the last vial wore off were intact once more, sharp and solid. My eyes landed on the demon—who, incidentally, looked like a college kid in his jeans and T-shirt. Cute in a mundane way, with shaggy blond hair and blue eyes—when they weren't red, as they always turned when he cut into me. "Where have you been? Where's the rest?" I demanded, stepping forward as if to search him bodily.

"Ah, ah, ah," he admonished. "You know how this works."

Without even hesitating, I pulled up the left sleeve of my long-sleeved tee-shirt and held the arm out to him. "Here," I said. "Do it fast."

I felt the bright sharp pain of the blade slide down my forearm from elbow crease to just above the wrist, and I turned away as he started collecting. My eyes were closed and I was pretending to be somewhere else, anywhere else, when I heard the shocked, horrified voice that froze the blood in my veins.

"CALLIE!"

 _Sam._

* * *

 **If anyone's still reading, I'm sorry I let this sit for so long. Life has other plans sometimes. I have missed writing, though, and thanks to a kind message prompt from sjwmaw, I decided to hammer out another chapter. Hope you enjoy it. Let me know, and I'll get going on the next chapter.**


	14. Chapter 14

_I am eight years old, and I am well and truly screwed._

 _As my brother pulls the car around back at Bobby's I devise a plan to open my door and make a run for it. I could head for the woods, but he's faster and the best tracker I know. I think my best bet is to bolt into the house and barricade myself in the upstairs guest room that's really my room._

 _So before the car is even fully stopped I yank the handle and throw myself out into the fresh air, running like my life depends on it, which I'm actually pretty sure at this point it does._

 _And then an arm darts out and catches me around the waist so suddenly and I'm running with such speed that it knocks the breath out of me in a loud "OOF." I'm spun around none too gently and come face to face with Dean, his blazing green eyes pinning me to the spot. When he pulls me to the side by the elbow and lands three stinging smacks on my butt, I cry out in pain and surprise._

" _Don't you_ EVER _jump out of a moving car like that again, you understand me?" he growls._

 _I can't find my voice so I just nod, and he glares for another few moments before releasing my arm. "Go to your room. I'll be up to deal with you later."_

 _So that's how it's gonna be. Resisting the urge to rub my smarting behind or wipe the tears from my eyes, I dart up the back porch steps, through the den, and upstairs to the cozy little room I've spent so many nights in._

 _I curl up on the bed and try not to cry. Dean is so mad. He's mad because I disappeared again, sure, and he's even more mad about what I was doing when he found me. Staking out a haunted house. Not just any haunted house, but THE haunted house. The one he and Sam are in the middle of researching for a hunt. I'd thought I was so cool, showing my friends Anna and Stacy how scared I wasn't, showing them the EMF and watching their eyes widen and widen when we got even so much as a tiny blip of activity. I really don't even know how to use the thing; for all I know it was picking up rats in the walls or radio waves. It was just fun, for once, to pretend to do what my big brothers do, to have people look at me the way I look at them sometimes, when it hits me how cool they are._

 _Not so cool, though, when Dean busted into that house. Not so cool when he hauled us out and yelled at us until Anna and Stacy were both in tears, threatened to tell their parents what we were up to, and ordered us into the car before dropping them off at their houses._

 _Not so cool when he refused to look at me the whole way home, and really_ super _not cool when he grounded me to my room for the afternoon with the promise to "deal with" me later._

 _So when heavy footsteps sound out in the hall I cringe. But the door swings open to reveal Sam's towering figure. He looks mad, but in a quieter way than Dean. His anger is tinged with disappointment, worry. A little compassion, probably because he knows as well as I do that Dean is going to kill me._

" _What were you thinking?" he asks. When I shrug, he crosses the room to sit next to me on the bed. "No, I want an answer, Callie. What were you thinking, doing something so dangerous and stupid?"_

" _I just wanted them to think I was cool," I say finally, looking up at him through my lashes. He doesn't melt underneath my charm. He just raises an eyebrow at me._

" _How'd that work out for you?"_

" _Well, it was going pretty good until Dean found us," I say._

" _And then?"_

" _Then he scared my friends and now he's going to kill me. And if he doesn't kill me it doesn't matter because they'll never speak to me again."_

" _He's not going to kill you," Sam says wisely._

 _I look at him hopefully. "Really? Did you talk to him?"_

" _Oh, he's going to yell some more, do his scary Dean thing, but he's not going to_ kill _you. Too much work to dig a grave in this heat."_

" _Saaaaam," I whine. "Can't you help?"_

" _Cal. You know the rules. You know better. You put your life in danger and you put your friends' lives in danger. Those aren't small offenses, are they?"_

 _I look at my lap. When I don't answer, Sam puts a finger under my chin and lifts my face up so I have to meet his eyes. "I didn't think anything would happen," I say with a touch of a whine._

" _You got lucky."_

" _I don't feel lucky."_

" _You're lucky you're alive and you're_ real _lucky Dad's not here."_

 _That, I have to admit, is true._

 _It's hours later, or at least it feels like it, when Dean finally comes in. He doesn't knock, he doesn't waste any time. He pulls out the desk chair and straddles it, folding his arms over the top and fixing me with a look that makes me squirm._

" _What do you have to say for yourself?" he demands._

" _I'm sorry?"_

 _He raises an eyebrow at me. "You askin' or tellin'?"_

" _I'm sorry."_

" _Yeah, that's a start. How 'bout you list for me all the things you did wrong today. I wanna see if you know exactly how much you messed up."_

 _I bite my lip, thinking. "Well … I didn't come right home after school."_

 _He gives a brief nod. "One."_

" _I went off in the woods without you knowing where I was."_

" _Two."_

" _To a place I know is haunted."_

" _Three."_

" _Where you and Sam are working a case._ _And I told my friends what we do."_

" _Four, five, six."_

" _But Dean, they—"_

" _I don't care that they didn't believe you anyway," he interrupts. "It doesn't even matter to me that nothing bad happened, because it_ could _have. Do you understand that? You could have been hurt or killed, or one of those girls, and all because you were breaking every damn rule in the book. Oh, and you forgot a couple. You lied to me and you deliberately put yourself in danger. Those are biggies."_

 _I nod, blinking back tears. "So what now?" I ask._

" _Now you spend a whole lot of time earning back the trust you lost today."_

 _I'm surprised that those words sting so badly. "You don't trust me?"_

" _No. I'm disappointed in you, kiddo. I thought you were smarter than what you showed me today. You scared us to death and you broke the rules and yeah, you lost my trust. You want it back? It's gonna take time. Until then, you're grounded—and if you step one foot out of line, you're gonna wish you hadn't. We clear?"_

 _I nod. He leaves the room without hugging me, and that hurts more than anything else I had feared he might do._

* * *

Letting my brothers down? It seems to be a thing I do. Standing in my bare feet by the humming vending machines, demon blood warming my insides and my arm being drained by a demon for mass distribution, I flashed back to that time when I was eight and heartbroken by the idea of never getting Dean's trust back. This? This was something so much darker, so much less forgivable. How could I have let it get this far?

Sam froze.

My heart stopped.

Time stood still.

The demon dropped my arm like it had burned him.

And then Sam charged forward and for a terrified moment, I thought he was going for _me_. But he pushed me aside (not too gently, either; I stumbled hard into the humming, neon plastic facing of the Coke machine). And suddenly a blade was in his hand and he rammed it into the demon up to the hilt. I bit my lip hard to keep from screaming and turned away from the sizzle and flash that accompanied the demon's death.

The moment it was done he turned on me, yanked me around to face him, and his eyes were seething with a fury I'd never, ever seen in them before. Not from _Sammy_.

"I'm sorry, Sam, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I was muttering softly, hoping to ward off his anger before he actually exploded.

He didn't seem able to form words, but the death-glare was quite enough, thank you very much. I flinched when he reached for me, grasping both of my hands and tugging my arms forward into the dim light so he could examine them. Only one was freshly cut and bleeding (we'd been interrupted, you see), but the other arm held the same half-healed gash he'd found on me in the library earlier, and it looked just as bad as the bloody one now, spelling out my guilt as it were and leaving me utterly defenseless. I grasped for a defense anyway.

"It's not what you th—"

"Don't!" he barked, and I cringed. "Don't you _dare_ tell me it's not what I think! Get inside. Get inside now."

"Sam, please. Please? Can you just let me explain?"

"Explain what, Callie? The fact that you're selling your BLOOD to a DEMON?"

"I'm not! I'm not … _selling_ it, jeez! You make it sound like I'm a prostitute or something!" My heart was jackhammering in my chest from fear but at the same time his anger was fueling my own. Winchester knee-jerk defense response. Kind of a stupid one, now that I thought about it.

His fingers sank into my shoulders and he pressed my back against the wall, bending down so his face was just inches from my own. When he spoke his voice was quieter, but deadly. "What _possible_ explanation is there that would make this any better? _You have blood on your lips, Caroline._ "

I quickly reached up to swipe at my mouth. My hand came away with a dark smear, and that was it. I knew there was no way out of this. Tears welled in my eyes and I looked away from my brother's accusing eyes, gluing my own to the concrete, my bare feet with their pink-polished toenails.

Sam held me there for another long few moments, but when I didn't say anything else I guess he gave up on waiting for me to explain the inexplicable. He seized my elbow with one hand—that hand big enough for his fingers to wrap all the way around my bicep and then some—and towed me behind him back down the breezeway to our rooms. We were going to face Dean, now, and he was going to know how badly I'd screwed up. This was it. If _Sam_ was this upset, Dean would never forgive me.

He was asleep when we busted into the room, but in the time it took the door to fly open and bounce off the wall he was not only awake, but standing, gun in hand, ready for action.

When he saw the blood on my arms he dropped the weapon and was at my side in half a second. "What happened?" he demanded. When neither of us answered, he looked sharply between us. Sam was running his hand through his tousled hair, trying to get his own breathing under control, and he was sorely mistaken if he thought _I_ was about to kick off this conversation.

"Somebody better start talking!" Dean pressed more urgently. "Callie, Sam? _NOW!_ "

"She's on demon blood," Sam blurted out.

And there it was.

* * *

 **Wow, people, it makes it so much more rewarding to write when I get reviews! BIG thanks to everyone who took the time to throw me a bone. I got this chapter out as soon as I could. I hope you like it. Keep reading, keep reviewing, and I'll keep writing!**


	15. Chapter 15

My brother's eyes were always a direct and perfect reflection of his emotions, ranging from dark, murky sea-green to bright sharp glass-shard emerald and everything in between. They reflected not just his current mood—piercing as an ice pick when he was angry, twinkling with mischievous light when he was amused, shadowed and guarded when he was sad—but very often his thoughts as well. I knew if I was going to get a yes or a no to whatever request I had (party with some kids from school, nope; half a beer after a hard day, maybe; a driving lesson in the Impala, have you lost your fucking mind) before he ever spoke.

And when Sam so gracelessly spilled my secret, my gaze shifted instantly and fearfully to Dean's eyes for a reaction I didn't even want. All I really wanted to do was bolt out of there and hide. Avoid it all. Forget that this had happened, that I'd gotten myself into this mess in the first place, that Sam had killed the only source I had to feed my addiction (and yes, dammit, it was one, much as I'd like to deny it), that I'd screwed up so completely, lost their trust, _let them down._

Of course I was born to do that. From the get-go I'd been nothing but a disappointment to my family, starting with Dad and trickling down the family tree. I sucked at fighting, even self-defense, which is the only kind of fighting they'd bothered to teach me because I was forbidden to hunt (and why not? Who'd want such a royal screw-up dragging them down?). I wasn't brainy like Sam, so my research skills weren't even very helpful most of the time. I held them back, always had, always would.

And now this. This betrayal. I'd thought summoning that demon was going to save my brothers but instead it had damned me. Dean had just started to trust me again, at least a little bit, and now he never would. The thought made tears spring to my eyes.

When Sam's words hit the air, they seemed to take a physical toll. My breath caught in my throat. Dean sort of laughed, but the sound was completely without humor, a huff of disbelief as he glanced between Sam and me, reading us like he does because a big brother—at least _our_ big brother—always can.

And then those eyes landed back on mine and he saw the truth there and it was finished. Confusion, check. Horror, check. Hurt, check. Fury, double check.

I expected the explosion to come immediately, but Sam spoke next. Dean and I didn't break eye contact.

"I killed it, the demon that was … doing _that_." Out of the corner of my eye I saw him wave a hand vaguely in the direction of my bleeding arm.

"Wait, what? You said she was—" Dean started.

"Yeah, they were doing an _exchange_ ," Sam said, spitting that last word in disgust. "He had these on him." He held out the vials and Dean glanced away from me for a brief moment, his expression not changing. "And she had … there was blood on her lips."

"But you didn't _see_ her?"

"Drink? No, I didn't see it, Dean, but come on, look at her. Glazed eyes, jumpy as hell, hopped up like a junkie after a hit. I know the signs. _You_ know the signs."

For a moment I thought I could work with this. Sam hadn't seen it, I hadn't admitted to it. For all he knew I was only on the donor end of the thing.

But then Sam continued. "Think how she's been acting lately. Fidgety, oversensitive, moody, sleeping too much, not eating enough … I don't think we need much more proof, but if you're still not sure, ask her. I have to get some air."

The door slammed behind him and I was left alone with Dean. My big, brave brother. My superhero. My father in so many ways that mattered.

"How long?" he asked, deceptively quiet, and there was no inflection whatsoever. The words were flat. Hard. Like his eyes were now.

My lips trembled and I shook my head. I hadn't yet decided how to play this. I was pretty sure lying wouldn't work, but the longer I stood there with that hot awful evil blood coursing through me the more I thought lying was my only option. Otherwise … otherwise what? They'd lock me up, dry me out. I didn't think I'd survive that. _SAM_ almost didn't survive that, and he was a million times stronger than me.

I waited too long to answer.

 _"HOW LONG?!"_ Dean shouted fiercely, loud enough to make me jump. The tears that had gathered in my eyes spilled down my cheeks of their own accord.

My mind raced. Why was it so hard to _think_? What could I tell him that would erase that look from his face and at the same time protect me from the hellish prospect of detoxing in Bobby's iron-clad salt-walled dungeon?

In two long strides Dean was in my face, his hands gripping my shoulders. He shook me once, hard enough that my teeth clicked together and I let out a little cry of fear. Not fear that he'd hurt me, I knew he'd never hurt me, not _really_. It was fear of what might come next, out of his mouth, not his fists, if I kept stalling and avoiding his question. Fear that he might say things that could never be unsaid, that he might revoke his love and give voice to all those hidden resentments he'd built up throughout the years.

 _You tied me down._

 _You held me back._

 _You were never one of mine._

Train of thought, when one is pumped full of demon blood, is a tricky thing. It seemed a likely scenario.

Instead, he squeezed my shoulders even tighter and gritted out, "Caroline Winchester, if you don't answer me right the fuck now, so help me, you're going to wish you had."

"Soon after you got back," I blurted. "Or, I guess I mean, after _I_ got back."

He gaped at me, shock plain on his face. "That's been months, are you fucking kidding me? _Months_?"

"It's not all the time, though, Dean! It's not as bad as it was with Sam. I don't need it like he did; it doesn't make me do freaky things, and—"

"Do you even hear yourself?" he shouted. "God _damn_ it, Callie! Don't you dare try to justify this to me!"

"I'm sorry!" I cried, meaning it with every ounce of my being. "I'm so sorry I've let you down again. I didn't tell you because I knew it would hurt you and I didn't want you to lock me up! Please don't, Dean, please don't put me in that place. I swear I can just stop. I will. I'm strong enough."

He shoved me away from him and turned his back on me. "I'm not talking about this right now," Dean said. "I can't even _look_ at you."

My heart broke.

* * *

The first time I ever ran away was a week after Sam left for Stanford. I managed to make it all the way to the bus station before encountering the first of two big problems. The first: They wouldn't sell me a ticket. I guess my inability to see over the top of the counter without standing on tiptoe and the fact that I was clutching a Ziploc bag filled with coins I intended to use to pay for said ticket made me look slightly suspicious. The second: Dean showed up.

He sat down next to me on one of the benches in the station and we were both silent for a long time. I couldn't believe he didn't start his tirade right away. I wasn't even crying, which would usually hold off the yelling at least for a little bit. No, we just sat. And then when it seemed like we'd just sit there forever, silent, he spoke.

"I miss him, too," he said. "I miss him like crazy. But you know what stops me from hopping a bus and going out there to beg him to come back to us?"

I didn't know, so I just turned my watery gaze on him for the first time since he'd sat down, and waited.

"You. I got you, Cal, and you got me, and Sammy? He's gonna be okay. He's still our brother, he's still one of us. We just gotta let him go for a while. He'll come back to us. Just you wait."

"How do you know?" I asked, my voice cracking.

Dean gave me the saddest smile and stood up, slinging my beat-up old duffel bag over his shoulder. "Because," he said, his tone holding a conviction that his eyes didn't quite carry out. "In the end, family's all you got." When he started out of the station, I was two steps behind him. And when he reached back and held his hand out, I took it without hesitation.

* * *

 _"I can't even_ look _at you."_

When I turned and walked out the door of the motel room into the dark parking lot, I completely expected him to stop me and was completely ready to fight him on it.

He didn't. And that hurt worst of all.

* * *

 **Hey guys, sorry for the delay! Thank you for the reviews. Every single one makes me smile and makes me want to write more. So you're awesome, all of you who take the time to hit that little button and give a girl a little encouragement. Ain't SPN Family the best?**


	16. Chapter 16

_I'd lost both of my brothers from one heartbeat to the next. Dean was dead and Sam was lost to Ruby and the power she wielded before her, her offerings becoming more frequent and more irresistible to him as he slipped farther and farther away from me. I hated him for it. I hated Dean, too, but his physical absence made it a little harder to exact revenge. So I settled for making life difficult for Sam. I was bitchy, cold, unresponsive, stubborn, caustic. I ignored him when he bothered to make an effort to talk to me and I stayed out till all hours because what did he care? I spent time thinking of all the things Dean would never stand for and I spent more time_ doing _those things. Because I could. Because he was dead. Because Sam had left me, too, in his efforts to get him back, and then, finally, in his crushing, intoxicating grief over not being able to._

 _Nightmare time is different. It passes erratically, and before you know it you're awake and it's not over, and it's not over, and it's not over. You start to think it will never end, that this is actual Hell…_

* * *

I'd been walking for a good half hour before hearing the unmistakable growl of the Impala's engine and seeing the headlight beams wash over me and the path in front of me. Perhaps not surprisingly, the path, as it were, was a lonely road to nowhere, heavily forested on both sides, not a sign of human life to be seen. I pretended not to notice the car, as if that were even remotely possible, and kept walking, my eyes glued to my feet. It was the voice that pulled my head up in surprise. Because it wasn't Dean's voice. It was Sam's.

"Callie. Get in the car."

He was pacing me, the passenger side window rolled down as he leaned out in my direction, steering with one hand on the wheel. His eyes were plaintive, pleading. His tone wasn't commanding but gentle. The hurt part of me, the part that had been crying since I set foot outside the motel room and Dean had just … just _let me go_ , was drawn to that, to Sam's gentleness. That part wanted to jump into the car with him, to throw myself into his strong arms and feel that _someone_ still loved me, even if Dean didn't, even if he _couldn't_ now that I had shown my true colors.

The part of me that was still kind of a bratty 15-year-old spoke instead. "Go away, Sam. I'm not going back with you."

"Cal, come on," he said, still asking nicely. Dean, back when he gave a damn, would've already pulled over by now and manhandled me into the backseat against my will. That was not Sam's style … usually, I amended in my head, remembering his own demon-blood days and how that natural gentleness turned hard and cold and sharp. "Just get in. Let's talk. It's not safe out here."

I huffed out a humorless laugh. "Story of our lives, Sammy," I said in a faux-bluff tone that sounded remarkably like our older brother. "Nothing is ever safe. Didn't you get the memo?"

"Callie, don't make me pull over," he said. Slightly annoyed now, with an edge.

Gravel crunched loudly beneath my feet.

"What did he say to you?" Sam asked, almost to himself, but loud enough so that I could hear.

"Fuck him," I spat. "And fuck you, too, if you think I'm going back there. You guys are free of me. Congratulations."

There. The car swerved onto the dirt-and-gravel shoulder behind me and I barely had time to register that he'd pulled off before he had caught up to me. His hand closed around my elbow and he spun me around to face him.

"Stop that," he said. "Look, I know you're upset, I know tonight was a huge, horrible shitstorm, but you are our baby sister and there is nothing— _nothing_ —you can do to make us give up on you."

"Maybe you shouldn't speak for Dean," I countered. "He seemed pretty ready to throw in the towel."

"Dean's so pissed he can't see straight," Sam snapped. "Does that surprise you? It's DEAN. He holds us to these crazy, unattainable standards and then when we do something to disappoint him he blames himself and he lashes out because he didn't see the trouble coming and he didn't protect us well enough. This is _his_ shit, Callie. You know him. You know this is how he is. Right now he's back there worrying himself sick over you and beating himself up for letting you leave. You gonna let him do that? You gonna let him hate himself for YOUR mistakes?"

I squared my shoulders and met his gaze bravely, my eyes blazing. "It wasn't a mistake, Sam! That spell I did? Whatever happened and however it went wrong, I did it because I was trying to save you guys. I was trying to do something _right_ for the first time in my life, and I'd do it again if I had to."

He laughed, but it was a sad sound. "And that, Callie, _that's_ what makes you a Winchester. You do stupid things in the name of family. It's part of the reason we worry so goddamn much."

I looked at him in the offset glow of the Impala's headlamps. He looked tired, sad, his hazel eyes reflecting years' worth of burdens too heavy for anyone's shoulders. But also reflecting love for me, for Dean, for this fucked-up family of ours.

"I don't want to go to the panic room," I said. "I can't do that. I saw what it did to you."

Sam nodded, then took both my hands in his. "We're going to help you, Callie," he said. "And we will be with you every step of the way."

"You won't leave me?"

"Hell no."

"Do we have to go back? Is Dean still pissed?"

Sam smiled with half his mouth. "What do you think?"

I sighed. "I guess I don't have to guess."

"But you know what else he is?" Sam continued. When I didn't answer, he went on. "He's worried. He's feeling so damn guilty he'd happily beat the shit out of himself if that were possible."

"So why'd you come find me? Why didn't he?"

"He didn't think you'd come with him. He thought he'd end up fighting you into the car and make everything worse."

I nodded. "He's not wrong."

Sam towed me behind him back to the car and opened the door before turning to fix me with a mildly questioning look. "You coming?" he asked when I just stood there.

"You're giving me a choice?" I asked, surprised.

"I'm giving you the choice of getting in under your own power or being strapped to the roof," he said, and I knew he was joking but not joking, if you know what I mean. And damn, I was relieved for it.

"Sam," I said. "I'm sorry I was so hard on you back when … about all the Ruby stuff. It wasn't fair, and I see that now. I see how easy it is to fall into that trap. Does it ever get easier?"

He looked at me closely for an eternity of moments. There was a deep sadness in his eyes that made my heart ache. "You have us, Cal," he said finally, not answering my question at all, but pulling me into a suffocating embrace that told me pretty much all I needed to know. "We got you."

As I settled into the worn passenger seat and leaned my forehead against the cold glass of the Impala's window, I wondered about that "we."

I didn't think I could do this without both of my brothers.

* * *

 **Hey there, awesome people! Thank you, as always, for the reviews! This chapter was short, I know, but I wanted to get it up before my muse went back into hiding. She's been kind of fickle lately. I DO have an idea of how this is all going to wrap up but that requires me to actually find the time to make it happen. And that depends on YOU. Please let me know if you read and enjoy this story. I would like to do more Callie-verse stories after this one if any of you would be on board with that. Yea/nay/go away?  
**


	17. Chapter 17

Sam and I rode back to the motel in silence. I was not ready to face Dean, not after what he'd said to me, and not because I took any real issue with his words. Of _course_ he hated me. Why wouldn't he? I had betrayed him. I had done something unforgivable by falling before the same temptation that Sam had, and I knew how close _that_ had come to tearing us apart because I'd been there. I'd had a front-row seat to Sam's near destruction and Dean's helpless desperation. I had no excuse. I had no words to fight with because, well, he was _right_ to hate me. And then there was the lying. Dean had never taken kindly to being lied to, and so I'd spent most of my life being reluctantly honest even when it wasn't the most comfortable option. Because he had a world-class bullshit radar and I would rather face the music up front than draw it out and have him doubly mad for whatever I'd done wrong plus lying about it.

"Callie, did you dent my bumper with your bike?"

"Yes, Dean."

"Callie, did you take the last piece of pie?"

"Yes, Dean."

"Callie, did you clean the weapons like I asked you to?"

"No, Dean."

 _Callie, are you involved in a demon blood trade?_

 _Yes, Dean._

The only remotely positive thing I could see here, and it was tiny and way off in the distance, was that it was all out in the open now. Band-Aid ripped off, wounds (literal and figurative ones) in full view. I didn't see how it could get a whole lot worse, save for the possibility, which I acknowledged as pretty far off-base but still in the realm of oh, God, maybe, that he would tell me to take a hike. Or ship me to Bobby's and hit the road himself and just never come back. It hadn't been that long since we'd thought he wasn't coming back, ever, that he was stuck in Hell and there was no undoing it. It had been even less long since I had thought both of them were gone for good. If he ordered me away, I thought Sam would probably stick with me, fight him, both because he was kind of a pushover and because he had that sense of righteousness (which sometimes dipped slightly over into self-righteousness) that wouldn't allow him to abandon me for doing something he himself had done. That was something. I could lose Dean, but I probably wouldn't lose them both.

That little speck of optimism—morbid though it was—blipped out completely when we pulled into a parking space in front of the bland, anonymous stretch of motel rooms and Sam killed the engine.

"Do I have to go in?"

Sam sighed and looked at me across the darkness separating the driver's seat from the passenger's.

"I think it'd be a good idea," he said.

"I could sleep in the car. Give him some more time to not have to look at me."

"Cal, he didn't mean that."

"Yeah, Sammy, he actually did. You didn't hear his voice. You didn't see his face."

"True, but I know him. _You_ know him. He's the poster child for saying things in anger that he doesn't mean and then feeling guilty about it."

"You should've let me go," I muttered, twisting my fingers together in my lap nervously. "Dad would've cut me loose the second he found out I made that deal."

Sam sighed again. It was like a reflex for him, his default sound effect, or maybe a tic. I don't think he could help it. "That's not true," he said. "But this isn't about Dad; this is about Dean. And you. Look me in the eyes, Callie, and tell me you're completely oblivious to the fact that our big brother thinks the sun rises and sets on you."

I laughed dryly. "You're behind the times, Sam. He _used_ to think that, maybe. When I was like six, and the worst thing I'd ever done was puke on his leather jacket. This is different. This is the big leagues. I screwed up bad this time, and it won't ever be the same between us again, not EVER, because I broke his trust, and he doesn't forgive that."

"That's not even—"

"It happened with you," I blurted before I could stop myself. "You guys never really came back from that, not _really_."

There was a long pause while he studied me and I studied my hands. I heard him swallow and take a deep breath, not a sigh this time but close, before answering. His voice came out sounding a little odd, a little strained, like maybe I'd hit a little too close to home there, and I felt bad for it. Even if it was true.

"Dean and I, we're complicated, Callie," he said. "There's more to it, and you don't know all of it. I mean, yeah, I broke his trust. He's broken mine too, more than once. It'll probably happen again." He reached over and took my left hand, tugging it until I relinquished my nervous death grip on the right one. I glanced up at him and saw that his eyes were watery. I decided to believe that he was about to sneeze. "But here's the thing about family, Cal, and I want you to listen up because no matter what happens between you and Dean, now or later, this is something you can count on. Family is a choice, and it's one we made a long time ago. All of us. There are no takebacks, no exceptions. People get hurt, people say horrible things and do things they'd once have sworn they'd never do. But that choice is solid. When you have a family, a _true_ family that's a part of your soul, trust grows back. It just takes a while to heal."

I stared at my brother through a film of tears, and he gave me a sad, sweet smile and leaned over to give me a side-armed hug. He squeezed so tight it almost hurt, but that was okay. It made me feel safe.

"Now, get in there and let him blow up so we can start fixing this."

When I stepped out of the car and Sam started the engine, I froze. "Wait, you're not coming?"

"Nope, Callie girl, this one's between you and Dean."

"Sam!"

"Sorry, sister."

"Oh my God, you are an asshole!" I said, horrified.

He just smiled. "I love you, too."

And then he backed out and left me to my fate.

* * *

Dean was sitting on his bed when I came in, looking expectantly at the door. The growl of the Impala's engine was pretty hard to miss, so I guess there'd been no chance of catching him off guard. His expression was unreadable. I stood there in the doorway and waited. He waited. It felt like we would stay like that forever. And then, as it happened, we broke the silence at the same time.

"Sam left," I said.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"I heard," he said.

"I don't know," I answered.

So we'd lost our rhythm. I guess that was to be expected, at the very least.

"You don't know if you're okay." It was a question but not.

I shrugged. "I don't know which way you mean? I'm not possessed, or injured. My soul seems to be in place at the moment and I'm not jonesing for a hit of demon blood."

He nodded. "Well those are all good things."

"On the other hand … my brother hates me and I can't even blame him for it because I hate me, too."

Emotion flickered in his green eyes for the first time since I'd walked in, and he sat up straighter against the headboard. "Whoa, whoa. That's not—"

"I get it, Dean. I let you down. It's what I've always done best, right? I mean from the day Dad brought me home and the whole Winchester family dynamic got thrown out of whack I've done nothing but—"

"Stop right there!" he snapped, and years of ingrained obedience froze my words on my tongue. "You listen to me, little girl. This is not about you letting me down, Callie. This is not about some crap you've made up in your head about what it was like for all of us when you were a baby. This is about you putting yourself in danger and lying to me about it for months. _Months_! That's a whole different ballgame, kiddo. Am I disappointed in you? Of course. Do I want to go back in time and shake some damn sense into you the night you snuck out of Bobby's and went off to do that stupid spell? _Hell_ yeah. Am I pissed off that you've been lying and sneaking around and could've gotten yourself killed—or worse—all this time and that you don't seem to think anything of playing with your life like that? You better believe I am. But hate? Hate _you_? Callie, come on. You know better than that."

"You said you couldn't look at me," I said in a small voice, feeling tears threatening to spill.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and propped his elbows on his knees, rubbing his hands over his face in a frustrated gesture. But I didn't think the frustration was directed at me this time. A moment later he was on his feet and had crossed the space between us in a single stride. Putting his strong hands on my shoulders, he looked me directly, steadily in the eye.

"You and that giant of a brother of ours drive me crazy," he said, which is not really what I was expecting, but okay. "You make me want to tear my hair out and lock you in a convent made of salt and iron. Sam makes me want to punch walls and put itching powder in his underwear every single day just to piss him off. Some days I think that we're not going to make it to our next case without one of us getting tossed out of the car. But you know what? Life without you and Sammy? That's not something I can even imagine. That's not something I _want_ to imagine, _ever_. Do you understand me?"

I nodded, wide-eyed at his intensity, the odd combination of anger and vulnerability underlying the near-tirade. _This is the way he cares,_ I thought. _There's a power to his love, a fierceness. We are his everything.  
_

"Now we are going to fix this," he continued once he had my acknowledgment of his words. "We are going to get your ass detoxed come hell or high water, we are going to figure out why that asshat wanted your blood in the first place and kill every demon who got within five miles of it, and then we are going to move the hell on."

"I don't know if I can—"

"Oh you will, sweetheart," he said sternly. "You will if it kills me. Now come here."

With that, he pulled me roughly into his embrace, my face pressing into his solid chest and his arms wrapped around me so tightly I couldn't breathe, but I didn't even care. He was safe and he was strong and he was DEAN.

It seemed like we stood like that forever before he finally pulled back just enough to give me a blazing look that told me he meant business. "One more thing, Callie," he said. "Before we get carried away with the warm fuzzies."

"Okay?" I said uncertainly.

"You ever pull shit like this again, the demon won't _have_ to kill you. _Capiche_?"

I tried not to smile but I couldn't help it. Then I hugged him again.

* * *

When Sam finally came back an hour later, Dean and I were sprawled out side by side, watching _Nightmare on Elm Street_ on cable. He didn't seem surprised in the slightest, and it occurred to me that he had never doubted what would happen, that it would be just fine.

Because family's a choice, and it's one we'd made a long time ago.

He rolled his eyes at our choice of entertainment, but he shoved my legs over enough to make room to settle himself at the foot of the bed. By the time Freddy Krueger had killed just about everyone but Nancy, I had fallen asleep wedged between my brothers.

It was perhaps too close for comfort on a small, rumpled motel bed … but somehow it was the most comfortable I'd been in months.

* * *

 **Hey, guys! Thanks EVER so much to those of you who reviewed. Those reviews mean the world to me, and you aren't obligated to do it, and it takes time out of your life, even if just a little bit, so I feel the need to tell you how much I appreciate it. Thanks to those of you who read, too, even if you don't review, and for the ones who add my stories to their favorites/follow lists. You keep my writing fire burning. I expect to have a sorta fluffy epilogue to this one and then I'll be working on a new Callie-verse story ... I'm debating whether it's going to be in the same time frame or if I want to write her younger or older. Toss in your vote if you have a preference. And did I mention thank you? Thank you.**


	18. Chapter 18 (Epilogue)

**I'm back! Wrapping it up here, people. Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

If I said things went back to normal you'd think I was crazy, because the Winchester definition of "normal" is by pretty much everyone else's standards pretty freaking messed up. But it went back to _our_ kind of normal, which is the only kind I've ever had much interest in anyway.

I hope you don't mind if I gloss over the actual detox, because I don't remember a whole lot of it, and what I do remember is—surprise!—not very pleasant. They didn't put me in Bobby's basement, and for that I will be eternally grateful and never annoy either one of my brothers again as long as I live. Okay, that's clearly a lie, but you get the point.

No, I got the comparative luxury of drying out in "my" bed in the upstairs room at Bobby's. I was never left alone—at least that I remember—and I don't think either of them slept the whole time. I was told the worst of it lasted for three whole days. They tried to find a spell, or a Cas … something that could ease the pain for me, make it at least a little bit tolerable. But Cas was AWOL again and they butted heads over using magic on me. So I was left to sweat it out and scream and flail and hallucinate and vomit—yes, there was quite a bit of vomit, and as luck would have it, I have very clear memories of _that_ part.

I also remember lots of touching. Nothing weird. Sometimes it was to restrain me, strong hands gripping my arms and preventing me from thrashing wildly and throwing myself off the bed, or hurting myself or them in some way during one of the horrific fever dreams where they became hulking clawed creatures or shadowy evil things with red eyes hell-bent on eviscerating me. Other times, though, the holding was for comfort. I would wake up and find myself tucked tightly into the crook of Dean's arm, or feel Sam's giant hand stroking sweaty tendrils of hair off my forehead.

I have a vague memory of Dean singing softly to me, of all things AC/DC's "Back in Black." Of Sam telling me that I was over the hump, that the rest would be cake. Or pie, he amended with a chuckle that sounded more weary than amused—pie, for Dean.

Bobby came in and brought the boys food and me water. So much water, these people wanted me to drink! Which would have been okay, maybe, if my stomach didn't instantly reject anything that invaded its suddenly hostile environment. Dean hated puke, always had. But I remember him holding my hair away from my face with one hand and rubbing my back with the other as I threw up violently into a bucket they kept next to my bed.

There was talk of dehydration, of IV fluids, of beating the shit out of Cas if he ever bothered to get his feathery ass down here, for letting me suffer like this.

And then, finally, after a period of time I could not have put a number to if my life depended on it, the world started to become softer, less painful. Things were not so blurry around the edges. I didn't feel like I was trapped in a nightmare or that my brothers' much-loved faces were going to suddenly collapse and contort into hungry monster visages as they lunged to tear out my throat.

And that's all I can tell you. Because once I came out of the crazy part of it, I very quickly started to feel like myself again. Of course, _that_ manifested itself in undesirable ways like crabbiness and extreme irritation and indignation at not being allowed to resume day-to-day tasks.

"I'm not thirsty," I gritted out at Dean when he tried to hand me a glass of water for the fourth time in five minutes.

"Yeah I heard you the first sixty times. I still don't care. You gotta drink, Cal," he said, more patient than usual due, I assumed, to my "delicate condition."

I maintained my glare as I caught the straw between my teeth and took a—very, very tiny—sip. "Happy?"

"Generally? As a fat kid in a bakery. About your pathetic liquid intake? Nah. I'll be happy about _that_ "—and here he pressed the godforsaken glass back toward my face—"when this is empty."

"Deeeeean," I whined. And yes. It was a full-on whine, shameless and undisguised.

"Callieeeee," he mock-whined back. "Look, kid, I know you're tired and pissy and feel like hell, but the sooner you start getting some strength back the sooner you'll feel better. And _that_ starts _here_." He nodded at the glass and I took it, finally, with a dramatic sigh. "That's my girl," he said. "Now I'm going downstairs to help Sam and Bobby; they think they have a lead on the demon with the blood bank. You drink up and then take a nap."

"I've been asleep for _days_!" I protested.

"Hardly. You've been _out_ , I guess, as in totally unaware of what's going on around you, but I wouldn't call the shitstorm you just went through sleep by any stretch."

"So I can't even get out of bed?"

"Sorry sweetheart. You drink that and eat a little something later and _then_ we can talk leaving this room. Till then … you stay put, hear me?"

I just frowned.

"Callie? I mean it."

"I know you do."

Realizing he wasn't going to get an actual verbal deference to his authority, he sighed, leaned over, and dropped a quick kiss on top of my head. It surprised me; Dean wasn't huge with the spontaneous displays of affection. I must have really scared him.

He was almost out of the room when I said his name, stopping him. He looked back at me curiously. "Am I going to be okay?" I asked cautiously. "I mean, is it like … the blood addiction … is it like when someone's an alcoholic or a drug addict? Will I always be at risk for falling off the wagon? Am I going to have to be on guard for the rest of my life? What if—what if—?"

"Don't you worry about that; you're going to be just fine. We got you, kiddo. Sam and me will never let this happen to you again."

"But that's just it. It didn't exactly happen _to_ me. I _let_ it happen. I fucked up."

A muscle in his jaw twitched. "Watch your mouth," he scolded mildly, as if just by force of habit. "And you did, yeah. We all do; we're Winchesters. But we have each other's backs, Callie, don't ever forget that. Sam and I are gonna keep you clean, you can bet your ass on that."

I allowed a small smile. "I don't think it's actually physically possible for you guys to watch me any more carefully than you already do."

Dean grinned, and his eyes came alive, and I could see relief flooding him just from my small attempt at humor, to see me regaining a tiny bit of myself. "Oh, grasshopper," he said. "Wait and see."

He wasn't kidding. The days and weeks that followed made the time leading up to my detox seem lenient by comparison. Breathing down my neck? Try stepping on my freaking heels. _Both_ of them, too, not just Dean.

The only freedom I got was at school. I was enrolled in the local high school near Bobby's now that I wasn't allowed to hunt, and Sam and Dean came and went as hunts did the same. Funny that way back before all of this happened, that had been the whole sticking point, my refusal to be left behind. Now I didn't want any part of the hunts, not really. I was afraid. I didn't trust myself. To be completely honest, as much as I protested their overprotectiveness (smothering, actually, is what it felt like), when they weren't around I felt kind of twitchy.

But then.

Then, just when we were getting back to Winchester-normal and we all felt like things might eventually be all right, the absolute _worst possible thing_ happened.

I got a date.

His name was Jake, and he was as corn-fed all-American apple-pie-eating baseball-playing blond-haired blue-eyed normal as they come. Mundane, almost. Except, God, he was cute. And I was happy when he asked me to the dance, as stupid as I thought school dances were (granted, I'd never actually _been_ to one, but who the hell would think I'd ever have the chance?), but then I remembered the problem. And the problem was twofold: a Sam and a Dean. Two big, strong, overprotective, intimidating brothers who were going to step on Jake and squash him into the ground if he looked at me sideways. Or at least make him rethink the whole invitation and leave me standing on Bobby's doorstep like a big loser while he made a quick self-preserving getaway.

Sneaking out wasn't an option, not the way the guys were lately, and when they weren't around, Bobby was just as bad. And getting caught (which I would) would only result in mortification and/or (probably and) eternal grounding. You see that? Grounding. _As if my life weren't already one long stint in the pen._

Besides, I didn't really feel like getting back on their bad sides so soon, anyway. As luck would have it, and yes, I use the word "luck" with as much sarcasm as exists in the whole of teendom, they were just back from a hunt on the Friday of the dance. I'd decided to spring it on them at the last minute so that they didn't have too much time to, like, strategize ways to make Jake suffer.

So when I came downstairs freshly showered, hair combed neatly, wearing actual makeup and my good jeans, they knew something was up. They looked up from their card game at the kitchen table, pausing with beer bottles halfway to their mouths to gape at me with comically identical expressions. Dean was the first to shoot me the raised eyebrow, asking without words what the hell I was up to.

"So there's this thing," I started, and mentally chided myself for starting so weakly. "At school. And I'm, uh, I thought I'd go."

They exchanged looks, and I noticed that Sam seemed mildly amused while Dean just looked … Dean.

"A 'thing,' huh. What kind of 'thing'?" he asked gruffly.

"Oh, you know, a get-together in the gym. Stupid punchbowl and Chex mix and a ridiculous DJ playing annoying pop hits."

Sam smirked. "A dance."

"I guess you could call it that."

"And you want to go."

I gave them a _Well, duh_ look, sweeping my hand vaguely to indicate my uncharacteristically well-put-together self.

"Who's the guy?" Sam asked, and his amusement was clear now, sparkling in his eyes, and it was irritating but it was better than the poker face I was getting from the other one.

At that, Dean put his cards face down on the table and turned fully in his chair to face me. "Guy? What guy? She didn't say—Callie, is there a _guy_?" He said the word "guy" the way some people might say the word "pustule."

I felt my face flush and suddenly found my shoes very interesting. "He's in my chemistry class, his name is Jake, he plays baseball and he's very nice. Straight-A student. Maybe Bs. But either way, smart, friendly, respectful, and _absolutely not a supernatural being of any kind_." I said all that in one breath, then paused to fill my lungs before looking back at Dean. "So can I go?"

"Did you already tell him you'd go? Without mentioning it to me?"

I was about to hem and haw my way around that potential landmine when the doorbell rang, answering the question for me. "Please, Dean. I can't turn him down now. I mean, at least I told you guys, right? I didn't try to sneak out my window, which I've done before and I totally considered this time, but I thought I'd try a new transparent approach, and that's good, right? Sammy?" I looked at smirky boy pleadingly, hoping he would step in and defuse Dean before he had a chance to get worked up.

Dean kept his gaze locked to mine as he drained the rest of his beer and stood up. My eyes widened. "Dean?"

He stretched and cracked his knuckles as if preparing for a sparring session. "Don't keep the boy waiting, Callie. Go, invite him in."

"In-invite him…"

"You think you're stepping foot out of this house with some juvenile delinquent we've never met? Baby, you're dreaming."

"So if I let you meet him…?"

" _If_ he passes, with both of us, then yeah, you can go. If Sam or I get even a gut twinge that he's an asshole, or an oversexed teenager who's going to try anything more daring than holding doors for you, all bets are off. Got it?"

I winced, looking over Dean's shoulder at Sam, who just shrugged. "You guys are going to scare him, aren't you?" I asked mournfully.

Dean slung his arm around my shoulders and guided me toward the front door where, presumably, poor Jake awaited, completely unaware of his impending doom. Sam trailed behind us.

"Damn straight we are," he said. "What kind of big brothers would we be if we didn't?"

I held my breath as Dean drew up to his full height and flung the door open, Sam standing right behind him, and the two of them together looked very much like a double-reinforced brick wall. And every bit as welcoming. I decided to die.

What kind of big brothers, indeed.

 ** _END._**

* * *

 **Thank you for reading! Please let me know if you liked it, and if you would like to read more. That's really and truly what keeps the writing fun, knowing that someone out there is enjoying this as much as I enjoy writing it. A special thanks to delacre, whose kind words and thoughtful reviews kept my heart in the story, and really to all of you who took the time to say something. I like writing flashbacks, so I'm considering a story of drabblets about Callie's younger years, or one that jumps around so I don't have to pin myself down to a particular age. I like variety. Spice of life and all. Have a great night, and please review!**


	19. BONUS CHAPTER

**Hi, lovely readers! In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I got the urge to write a little addendum to this story. It has pretty much nothing to do with anything that came before it, but I had a vision in my head and wanted to share it. I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

The creature was huge, its skin cold and slimy and alien, slipping through my fingers as I tried to grasp it. When I reached into the gaping hole in its body my fingers met something soft and squishy and disgustingly yielding; I think it was its heart. I'd seen some nasty monsters in my sixteen years, but this? This was one for the books.

"Need any help, sweetheart?"

Bobby's voice rang out from the den, and I stifled my sound of disgust and jerked my hand out of the turkey. Yes! I'd retrieved the little bag of guts. Shuddering as I tossed it in the direction of the sink, I called back, "No, I'm fine!"

"All right, just holler if you need me. Believe it or not, I've cooked a bird or two in my day."

I wiped my hand on my jeans and went back to the task at hand.

That task was Thanksgiving dinner. My brothers were on their way home and I was determined to have it on the table for them: a glorious, perfect, traditional, ripped-from-the-pages-of-Better-Homes-and-Gardens meal. Turkey, dressing, butter-and-cream-and-cheese-laced everything. Stuff Sam would ordinarily turn his nose up at but which, I knew, he would secretly be thrilled about, such was the rarity of real home cooking. And Dean. I could barely suppress my grin as I thought about the one that would spread across his face, lighting up his green eyes and crinkling them at the corners because FOOD. Was one of the best and fastest and simplest ways to his heart.

An hour into prep work and I was becoming increasingly frustrated. Bobby's kitchenware was sparse, to say the least. I had to put the dressing in three small pans instead of one big one, and there was no potato peeler to be found. Then I encountered a cook's nightmare: Four different dishes that need to go into one oven at the same time, at different temperatures. Deciding that faster was better, I cranked the heat up and decided to just keep an eye on everything and hope for the best. I set the table with real plates and put the forks and knives in their proper places—I was pretty sure, at least; I'd read Emily Post's Guide for Children when I was little and it had weirdly stuck with me.

Burned the marshmallows on top of the sweet potatoes. Oh well. I scraped them off—the whole blackened mess came away in a large sheet of charcoal-topped goo.

One of the casseroles spilled over the edges of its pan and dripped into the bottom of the oven, causing lots of smoke and chaos as Bobby came on the run to see if I was "burnin' the damn house down or what!"

I dropped two plates—I was holding them both at the time; I'm not useless enough to drop one plate two separate times—but they shattered and I stepped on the porcelain in my bare feet and there was a little blood and Bobby came in again and overreacted and tended to the wound like I'd cut off a toe or something. And then he made me sit while he swept up the shards to make sure I didn't hurt myself again, and in the meantime another casserole burned and the one that had spilled over before did it again, and I protested as he turned the oven temperature down and told me that 500 degrees is too damn high, and by the time he left and I cranked it back up again—I was trying to get this done before they GOT here, you see—I'd lost another half hour.

When I heard the sound of the Impala pulling around back I wasn't even almost finished, and my heart sank but lifted at the same time because I'd _missed_ them. I dusted flour from my hands and burst out the back door and met them at the car. Sam was out first, and he swept me up in his man-giant arms and spun me around like we were in a cheesy movie or something. Dean noticed my bandaged foot before he even greeted me, so the first words out of his mouth were, "What happened?" Spoken sharply but only because his default was concern and protectiveness; he'd never been able to stand it when I got hurt, even if it was only something minor like _I stepped on a piece of freaking plate, calm down._

"You're too early," I said, clinging to Dean's side as we began to walk back toward the house. "I have a surprise for you."

"Say it's an all-expenses-paid trip to Fiji," Dean said. "I could really go for an all-expenses-paid trip to Fiji."

"It's not an all-expenses-paid trip to Fiji," I said, and he feigned a look of intense disappointment. "It's Thanksgiving!"

Sam smiled. "Cal, Thanksgiving was two weeks ago," he said, reasonable and precise as always.

"I know that, Sammy, but you guys were too busy ganking a whatever-the-hell to celebrate. I cooked!"

They stopped walking then, and exchanged a look.

"You … you cooked?" Dean asked carefully.

"Yes! Turkey and everything!" I didn't miss the second look that passed between them, and I huffed a little irritably. " _Guys_. That chicken thing was _years_ ago. Will you ever let it go?"

"Kind of hard to forget," Sam pointed out. "The, uh, the hospital, and all."

"I've never been so miserable," Dean added. "And I've been to HELL."

I smacked him on the arm and shot Sammy a glare for the grin that was plastered to his face. "Come on, you're gonna eat your words."

"Will they make me throw up for seventy-four hours?"

"Dean!"

Turned out that Bobby only HAD four plates to begin with, and I'd destroyed two of them. So I served Bobby's and my meals on sheets of aluminum foil.

The turkey was burned to a crisp on the outside, raw in the middle. "The skin's the best part anyway," Sam asserted, popping a charred strip of turkey skin into his mouth and chewing like a boss.

The dressing was dried out beyond recognition, separated into crunchy little chunks. "Like croutons!" Dean observed. At the looks he got from Bobby and Sam, he amended, "I _love_ croutons!"

The remaining dishes were just as bad. As I looked around the table at these men who were bravely choking down the worst Thanksgiving dinner in the history of food, even mostly hiding their looks of disgust, I was overcome with love for them all. When a little sob escaped me, they all reacted.

"It's really good, sweetheart, don't you worry yourself about nothin'."

"Callie, this is the best meal I've had in weeks, not even kidding."

"I could live on this. Forget burgers, just give me a plate of Thanksgiving by Callie any day, and I'm solid."

Their words—lies, all—made me cry harder. "I just wanted to do something nice for you," I said. "Next time I'll just buy you a case of beer."

Dean smiled at that, and scooted his chair over next to me so he could wrap an arm around my shoulders and pull me against him. "You couldn't have done any better, Callie, you hear me? This is perfect. _You're_ perfect." He pressed a kiss against my temple in an uncharacteristic show of public affection. Then, seeming slightly embarrassed and needing to lighten the mood, he added, "Well, I mean, maybe if there'd been _pie_ …"

Oh!

"There is pie!" I said. "I made it yesterday; it's in the fridge. I totally forgot!"

Dean was already up and headed for the refrigerator. "Callie Winchester, you are my favorite sibling."

"Mine too," Sam added, winking at me from across the table.

The pie wasn't award-winning, but it was recognizably pie. It had a crust and it had a filling and I hadn't forgotten to put sugar in it and it wasn't burned or undercooked …

This time when they ate, they didn't spit out mouthfuls into their napkins when they thought I wasn't looking. Seemed like a win to me.


	20. Chapter 20: Reboot

**Sometimes I get an unexpected Callie inspiration and don't feel like creating a new story for it. So I hope no one minds if I just keep tacking on to this story as the mood strikes. Part II of this Chapter ("Reboot," haha) is in the works! Please remember to review and let me know what you think. You're awesome.**

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It was three hours past curfew and I'd lost my phone and by now Sam and Dean were no doubt worried and wrathful, respectively. I thought I remembered how to get back to the motel, but it was dark and I was barefoot and clumsy from coming down off the whatever-it-was that had been slipped into my drink—plus the drinks that had come before that one. Besides, all the streets in this stupid town looked exactly the same. And there were no convenience stores or diners or gas stations open at this time of night in this shit town where I could get help or ask to borrow a phone. I considered praying to Castiel, but last time I'd done that he'd scolded me for pulling him away from the war in Heaven to "deal with an inconsequential and fleeting teenage distraction." It had stung, and I didn't want his help if it meant he was going to be Big Brother Number Three. Which, by the way, is pretty much the _last_ thing I needed.

My feet hurt and my hair was a tangled mess, strands of it sticking to the tracks of snot and tears drying on my face when the wind blew wrong. My hands were bleeding, and probably my lip. I was worried. I was sick. Mostly, though, I was _pissed off._

How dare he, anyway? How dare he try to get in my pants by taking away my will? He'd seemed like a nice guy, and so when he invited me to the party I didn't think twice about it. I dodged my brothers' questions and somehow, miraculously, got them to agree to let me go to a "supervised gathering" with this "girl" I'd met in town. A "girl" named "Sally." I guess I don't have to tell you that Sally didn't exist. Chad, however, did. He was 17, a senior football player at the local high school. He had chestnut-colored hair and blue eyes that sparkled when he smiled. And I had fallen for it like a total dumbass, the attention from a boy, such an unaccustomed experience, the undercurrent of excitement from doing something normal and fun and HARMLESS. Harmless.

I stopped walking for a moment, the rage that had been building inside of me bursting forth in a helpless, inarticulate growl that did nothing more than make my throat hurt. How _dare_ he? I was a _Winchester_ , dammit.

It seemed like another hour went by as I made my drunken, pained, confused way along the laughable main drag of this nowhere town until I suddenly spotted the half-functional motel sign, its neon letters spelling out, mysteriously, -ASS-VER I-N (Passover Inn?). I took a deep breath, bracing myself for the tirade to come, and then it dawned on me that the Impala was missing from its accustomed spot outside our room.

Of course it is, dummy, I chided myself. Three hours late, not answering your phone, you think they're just sitting there patiently waiting for you to get back?

Maybe _some_ people's parent figures would have been. But I hadn't had an ordinary upbringing, and there's no way my brothers would be content to wait. They were overprotective as hell, sure, but when I wasn't too busy being annoyed by that, I couldn't deny that they had good reason.

Things were always trying to kill us. Or one of us was always running away, keeping dangerous secrets, going dark side, or trying to sell his or her soul for one of the others. If I really stopped to think about it, I was lucky I had as much freedom as they did give me. Which, mind you, was pretty much none at all.

And here they'd given me a little slack tonight, just a little, allowing me this small concession, and I'd screwed it all up. ( _"When's the last time she asked to do anything fun, Dean? She's a good kid; she's a smart kid; it'll be fine," Sam had said in a low voice when he thought I was out of earshot_.)

It was so achingly sweet, hearing my brother go to bat for me that way that I almost— _almost_ —came clean about the half-truths. "Sally" being "Chad," for instance, and "supervised gathering" being "party full of drunken teenagers with pockets full of roofies."

Not that I'd known that last part, anyway. Not until I came to my sort-of senses and found myself being groped by a sloppy-drunk Chad on a dingy pool table in the party host's basement. I winced, thinking of what could have happened and how stupid I'd been to let my guard down. I'd been raised better than that. I'd been raised by four powerful men who, despite their size and gruffness and physical strength, had the utmost respect—near reverence—for women. And they'd armed me, my dad and Uncle Bobby and Dean and Sam, they'd instilled in me from earliest childhood the skills I'd need to avoid just this type of scenario. What a freaking disappointment I was.

It helped a little but not a lot that I'd left Chad in far worse shape than I was. Frankly, he hadn't stood a chance. I didn't even have to pull my knife on him. One right hook—hence the split knuckles—and he was stunned, one knee to the crotch and he was down for the count. I didn't know where I'd kicked my shoes off or left my phone and I wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of there, so I stumbled and fumbled my way out the basement door which led into the backyard and over a chain-link fence and into the street. And from there to here, two hours later, standing dirty and tired and sick and guilty and aching in front of the motel room door and debating what to do next.

I didn't have to debate long. The door opened with a sudden rush of air and there was Sam, my Sammy, and he took one startled look at me and enveloped me in a crushing hug.

"Jesus, Callie, do you know how worried we've been?" he scolded, but there was no fire to his tone, just relief. "What happened to you? Huh? Are you okay?"

I nodded and said "No" at the same time. His eyebrows shot up in alarm.

"What's wrong?" he asked with an edge. "Cal, what happened to you?"

"I just … I'm sorry." I started to cry in earnest then, my shoulders shaking with the effort. Sam ushered me over to the nearest bed and gently but firmly pushed me to sit on it.

"Hang tight, sweetheart, I've got to call Dean."

While he did that, I flopped back on the bed and stared at the water-stained popcorn ceiling and wondered vaguely why the room was spinning. I was too out of it to even care that my oldest brother was about to come back and murder me.

"All right, Callie," Sam said, sitting next to me and turning my face toward him. "You need to talk to me, all right, because I don't know what to make of this. What happened?"

"I'm drunk," I said, as if this were the important part. "I drank a lot of red stuff in a red plastic cup."

"Red stuff," he repeated.

"Yeah. Not blood, though; I'm not a vampire," I added, suddenly thinking it vitally important to share that detail.

"Callie, what…? Okay, let's try this again. You went to the party with this Sally girl you met at the library the other day."

"Oh, Sammy." I smiled up at him, finding the baffled expression on his face endearing. "Not Sally. _Chad_."

He frowned. "Chad. Who's Chad?"

"Chad is the real Sally. He gave me the red cup. And I'm pretty sure he's the one who kept filling it up, because it kept getting refilled, Sam, and I really don't think I was doing it."

"So you drank at the party, okay, I got that part. But that doesn't explain why you look … like this."

"Is Dean on his way home?"

"Yeah, so I think it would be smart for you to talk to me before he gets here, so we're on the same page and I can help you with him."

"He's mad."

"He's not happy."

"But he doesn't even know about the red stuff in the red cup yet."

"Callie, honey. You went to a party and you drank alcohol. I get it. That's not the worst thing a girl your age has ever done. I'm more concerned with why your hands are bleeding and your shoes are missing. And your, ah … your shirt's on inside-out."

I lifted my head up from the bed to try to get a good glimpse at my tee-shirt. He was right. The seams were definitely out instead of in.

"Chad," I said. My tongue was starting to feel too big for my mouth, which was dry like I'd been eating chalk with a chaser of cotton balls.

Something flashed in Sam's eyes, and he caught my forearms and pulled me up to a sitting position. "Look at me, Callie," he ordered. "Who the hell is Chad and what are you saying? Did he do something to you?"

I was dizzy from the sudden head rush sitting up had brought on. "If I told you, you'd kill him."

"Callie! What?"

"I don't want you guys to go to jail. Besides, I already took care of it."

"Took care of…?"

I reached up and cupped a hand against my brother's stubbled cheek. "Oh, Sammy," I said drowsily. "You're sweet to want to kill for me, but it's really not necessary."

"Caroline! You need to snap out of it and give me real answers. If I can't get them out of you, Dean's two minutes out and he sure as hell will. Who's Chad and what did he do?"

The use of my full name and Sam's uncharacteristically forceful tone brought me back from the fog that threatened to overtake me. "He … he didn't do anything. He _tried_."

"Tried what?"

"He gave me something."

"Something. Like a drug?"

"I guess."

"Okay … and you said he tried to do something. What did you mean by that?"

"It's kind of blurry. I woke up and he was on me. The pool table. I hit him with the eight ball."

"You hit him, and then he stopped?"

"No. He, um, he hit me back," I said, gesturing vaguely toward the crusted blood at the corner of my mouth.

" _What?_ "

The sharpness of his tone didn't bode well. Maybe I should have given Chad an alias.

"So I hit _him_ back," I continued, hoping to distract him from the fact that some asshole had drugged and touched and hit his little sister before his head exploded. "And it was a good one, Sammy, it almost broke my hand but I didn't close up on my thumb, just like you guys taught me. And then I kicked him—there—and he fell off the pool table. Then I left."

There was a long silence as Sam seemed to actively regain control of his breathing. His jaw clenched and unclenched and I knew he was livid and trying not to show it.

"I'm so sorry, Sammy, please don't be mad at me."

He looked back at me, surprise filling his eyes. "What? I'm not mad at you, Callie. This wasn't your fault. This … you need to tell me where to find this guy."

"No."

"Yes. Listen. You know as well as I do that when Dean hears about this, this little piece of shit is a dead man walking. You're better off telling me so I can take care of it."

"I told you, I already took care of it."

"Callie."

"No, Sam! I don't need you tracking him down and doing anything stupid either. Let's call the cops, leave an anonymous tip or something, call it a day."

We both heard the rumble of the Impala as it pulled up in front of the motel. Muffled light washed across the walls and then cut out as the engine quieted. Then the creak-slam of the door, then Dean filled the room, leading with his temper, as expected.

"Where the hell were you, Callie Winchester? I drove all over this goddamn town twenty times! So what, you're back to lying to me? Sneaking out to do whatever the hell you want and not giving a thought for anyone but your damn self?"

"Dean!" Sam interrupted. "Stop it! It's not what you think."

"Oh yeah? Our little sister is not shit-faced drunk right now?"

"Well, yeah. But there's more. Come on, let's talk outside."

I watched listlessly as Sam manhandled Dean out the door and then listened to their muffled, angry voices, making out a few words but truthfully not especially caring what they were saying. Everything hurt. My head, my knuckles, my stomach … my heart. Dean expected the worst of me because that's what I gave him. Year after year, time after time, that's what I delivered. It's why Dad had never cared for me. He knew I was the throwaway kid, the one who wouldn't amount to anything. Too rebellious to be a good little soldier, too afraid to be a suitable hunter, too much of a girl to be a prodigal son.

I was lost in these thoughts that didn't even fit into this situation when the door banged open and bounced against the wall hard enough to leave a dent in the plaster.

"Get in the car," Dean snapped at me. "We're going for a drive."

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 **TBC**


	21. Chapter 21

I planted my feet firmly and stood up as straight as I could, squaring my shoulders, and I _still_ only came up to Dean's chest.

"No."

The word rang hollow in the room. I rarely had the courage to tell Dean no straight out like that. It often came with unpleasant consequences.

His jaw muscles worked and I could see him fighting to keep his temper reined in. He knew he couldn't _force_ me to tell him what he wanted to know. He could put me in the car, but beyond that, he knew he had little power here. He hated that.

"Callie, I'm not messing around," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You are going to get in the damn car and we are going to drive over to this house you were at and I'm going to have a few words with your little friend. End of story. Now get your jacket on and get your ass out to the car. _NOW!_ "

I flinched when he shouted but managed to stand my ground. Our eyes locked in a silent battle of wills.

"Cal, it's a small town," Sam interjected. "We can find him on our own. Just save us some time."

I spun around to face my bigger, supposedly more _reasonable_ brother. "So you guys can go beat up a high schooler and get thrown in jail for assault on a minor? No thank you!"

"We're not going to—"

"What we do or don't do about this is not your concern," Dean interrupted.

"But it actually is!" I countered. "It's my life!"

"You're sixteen years old; you don't get to _have_ a life yet. And this is exactly why!"

Sam shook his head. "Dean, that's not helping. Callie, what he means is—"

"I can speak for myself, little brother, that all right with you?"

"She's not going to listen to you when you're like this."

"She damn well _better_ listen, because I'm not—"

I threw up on his shoes.

There was no preamble, no warning, I literally just opened my mouth and stood there while a stream of hot, sour liquid poured out of me and splashed off Dean's boots, pooling on the industrial motel carpet between us.

When my stomach had emptied itself of everything I'd had to drink that night, I became a wet dishrag. My knees started to buckle. I would have fallen into the puddle on the floor at our feet if Sam hadn't caught me by the arms from behind, pulling me gently over to the nearest bed and helping me lie down on it. I could hear muffled cursing from Dean as he shed his boots and threw towels down to soak up the vomit. Meanwhile, Sam was fussing over me, wiping my mouth with a wet washcloth and helping me to sit up enough to take small sips of water.

"It's okay, sweetheart, just relax, all right?" he murmured as he brushed strands of hair off my sweaty forehead.

"I'm sorry," I choked out, my throat raw and scratchy. "I didn't mean to."

"We know you didn't," he assured me. "Come on, don't cry."

Upon hearing that, Dean glanced up from where he'd been cleaning the mess next to the bed and came over to take Sam's place next to me. "Hey, no more of that," he said, his voice gruff but gentle in that way that only Dean could manage. "Just calm down and I'll let you wait till tomorrow to clean my boots."

I knew he was joking, trying to make me smile, but the events of the evening were suddenly weighing crushingly on my chest. Seeing the concern in his green eyes made it that much heavier. Instead of stopping my tears, his teasing had the opposite effect, and I began to cry harder, taking deep stuttering breaths between sobs. He pulled me up to a sitting position and wrapped his solid arms tightly around me, rocking me slightly back and forth. "Okay, okay, I got you," he mumbled into my ear. "I got you, baby, you're all right."

He let me cry for a while, and then when my sobs had subsided, he pulled me away from him enough to get a look at my face. His thumb gently brushed against the split skin at the corner of my mouth and I winced.

"He did that," he said, a statement rather than a question. "He hit you." His voice was tight, and I knew he was barely hanging on to the rage that he felt at the thought of someone hurting me.

I nodded.

"I'm sorry, Dean," I said.

His jaw unclenched and he looked at me, surprised. "What are you sorry for?"

"I shouldn't have lied to you, I shouldn't have gone to the stupid party, I shouldn't have been drinking, I shouldn't have trusted him."

Dean studied my face closely, then nodded in agreement. "No arguments here," he acknowledged. "And we're going to have a talk about all of that when you're feeling better. But _Callie_. You _know_ this isn't your fault, don't you? This"—he touched my lip again—"isn't your fault. You lying to me and Sam and sneaking out and drinking … as much as I hate that you did those things, baby, they don't give _anybody_ permission to put their hands on you. Tell me you know that."

I chewed on the inside of my cheek. "I just wanted to be normal," I whispered. "Just for a night."

He nodded. "Normal ain't all it's cracked up to be, is it?"

"But Dean, if I'd had a weapon."

"Yeah, I know."

"It scares me to think about it."

"It scares me to think about what could've happened if you didn't know how to take care of yourself."

I looked at him, wide-eyed and weakly teasing. "What? Are you saying I don't need a bodyguard?"

"I'm saying you did good, kid. You may not have started out this night using your head, but you used it when it counted. I'm proud of you for that."

My heart swelled, and I leaned into him, letting him wrap his arms around me again and smooth his hand along the length of tangled hair down my back. "I'm never drinking again," I moaned. "I feel like shit."

"Good."

"Dean!"

"No, really, that's exactly how I would hope you'd feel. I mean I don't even have to ask how much you drank because it's right over there. And if you ever do it again before you're twenty-one the puking is going to be the _least_ of your worries, you hear me?"

"Yes," I said, knowing that right now I would probably agree to anything at all as long as he kept stroking my hair and holding me, making me feel safe again.

I fell asleep without ever noticing that Sam had slipped out of the room, wondering where he'd gone, or hearing when he returned. And if his knuckles looked like they'd been through a meat grinder when I woke in the morning and saw him drinking coffee at the table by the window, then I could at least try to convince myself that they were old wounds, not fresh ones.

Even if we all knew better.

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Please review if you like this story and would like to read more!


	22. Chapter 22

**Let's go back in time a little bit, and explore in greater detail what happened that time Callie and Dean fought about him and Sam leaving for another hunt without her and she took the keys to the Impala (I know!) and rammed it into a tree. Poor kid. She's 9 and not very forward-thinking. Anyway, I warn you now that this one includes a minor disciplinary spanking. If you're offended by that, more power to you, and move on with my blessing. It's not a thing I do, generally, but I think any kind of corporal punishment warrants a disclaimer of sorts. If you like this chapter, please review and I will love you forever.**

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I never expected it to end like this. I thought I would make it past the age of nine, for one thing. I haven't even gone on a real hunt yet, at least not one where I was allowed to shoot anything or go undercover or, like, get out of the stupid car.

The car.

I love this car, maybe not as much as Dean does, but it's our home on wheels and I've spent more time than I can begin to calculate in its backseat, reading or sleeping or just watching the scenery speed by outside the windows. Now, it's where I am going to die.

A murder victim. More specifically, a victim of sororicide. I think that's the right word for killing a sister.

I sit up slightly to survey what I can see of the damage. It's bad. Oh God, is it bad. The hood, the shiny, pristine black hood, is all crumpled up like a smashed beer can against the solid old tree trunk. Some loose branches shook down out of the tree from the impact and are now scattered all over the wrinkly surface.

There is smoke coming from somewhere, and I kind of hope the whole thing will just explode like cars always do in the movies, and get me out of this quicker.

I hear my name being shouted and I slam my hand down on the lock and vault over the backseat. If I bend my knees all the way, I can just wedge myself into the footwell between the driver's seat and the back bench. I duck my head and wait.

I can hear the thunder of his footsteps, running, and then the sound of the door handle as he attempts to open it. I feel briefly glad that I locked it. _Good thinking, Callie,_ I congratulate myself, but then all thoughts cease because

"SON OF A _BITCH_!"

I make myself smaller. Maybe I can disappear.

"I can _see_ you, Callie, look at me. NOW!"

So much for that. I flinch as he slaps the glass of the window above my head. But I do raise my gaze up to meet his through the window, only briefly because his seem to be blazing with green fire and now I sort of feel like I'm going to wet my pants.

"Are you hurt?" he demands.

I know I should answer this question, and maybe that's all this is, he's just concerned about my safety because I'm his baby sister and he loves me and will forgive me because he knows how sorry I am and

" _Caroline_!" he snaps. "Are. You. Hurt."

I shake my head, expecting him to express some sort of relief. Instead, he mutters something that sounds like "Just wait," and I cover my head with my hands like they teach you to do in a tornado drill.

"Get out of the car, Callie. You have two seconds."

I don't move. If I keep not moving he'll go away. He'll get hungry eventually. The guy likes to eat. I can totally wait him out, and then when he goes inside I can sneak away and through the woods and find a nice little cave to live in or something. Maybe a nice old couple will take me in. I'm still little enough to be cute.

 _Smack!_ He's hitting the window again. I learned about foreshadowing in school and I think that may be what this is.

And now he's yelling at me in all caps with no punctuation. Not good.

"CAROLINE WINCHESTER GET OUT HERE NOW OR SO HELP ME I'M GOING TO BREAK THE WINDOW AND IF YOU MAKE ME BREAK THIS WINDOW YOU ARE FIFTEEN KINDS OF DEAD."

I whimper. I'm already at least seven and a half kinds of dead and I know it. He hasn't yelled at me like this since that time I started a fire behind Bobby's shed, and I was only six at the time and he probably wouldn't have actually _killed_ a little kid. But a nine-year-old? I'm pretty sure he might actually follow through.

He might be angry enough to have forgotten that he's practically a professional break-in artist and could open that door in five seconds flat. But I'm not looking a gift horse in the mouth.

So I decide to plead my case from the relative safety of the floorboard.

"It was an accident!" I say, my voice pitched higher than usual, and kind of quivery. "I didn't mean to crash!"

"Oh you didn't mean to crash. Did you mean to STEAL MY FUCKING CAR?!" Smack! "Open UP!"

"I wouldn't have taken your keys if you would have listened to me!" I counter, feeling slightly braver.

He laughs. And it isn't a ha-ha-that's-amusing kind of laugh. It is a dry, barking sound, and I think it's a sign that his blood pressure is reaching the danger zone. I hope I don't make my big brother have a stroke. I do love him despite the fact that he's currently trying to murder me. "Don't you dare try to turn this around, Caroline, this is ALL on you!" He jerks the door handle again and lets out a frustrated growl when nothing happened.

"It was a bad idea, okay?" I try. "I'm _sor_ ry!"

"Trust me. You're not even _close_ to being as sorry as you're gonna be. And every minute you stay in there, the worse you're making it for yourself."

"I'm just waiting for you to cool off," I say truthfully, peeking up through strands of my hair so I can see how red his face has gotten. Very red. "You're really, really mad."

"Fucking-A I'm really, really mad, Callie! You had a tantrum and so you stole my keys and tried to drive my car away and you … you did THIS!" He gestures grandly at the front end of the Impala, his eyes growing wider as if he'd forgotten how bad it looked.

"I want Sam," I say in a small voice.

" _What?_ You're in no position to be making demands!"

"I'm not demanding, I'm asking. Please go get Sam."

"You think Sam's going to be any less pissed than I am?"

I consider. "Well … _yeah_."

"Sam's not going to get you out of this, you know that, right? You step out of that car, your ass is grass."

"That's not making me want to get out of the car any faster," I point out.

He pokes a threatening finger toward me through the window. "Stop talking! Not another word. Shut your mouth and get out here! I am _not_ asking again."

"You weren't really asking before," I say quietly.

"I'm gonna—you—I can't bel— _ **GET OUT OF THE GODDAMN CAR!**_ "

He actually roars the last part and I shrink down further into my little hole.

There are a few long moments of silence. Then he says, "All right, fine."

I look up, surprised. _All right, fine?_ What does that mean? It sounds dangerous. And then I hear footsteps crunching away through the gravelly grass of Bobby's backyard. He must be trying to trick me. He expects me to make a run for it and he knows I'll never be able to outrun him. But here's the thing: It's getting really hot in here. There is sweat dripping down my back, and hair is starting to stick to my face in stringy clumps. I no longer think I'm going to be able to wait him out until his appetite calls him away. Now I think I'm going to die of heatstroke and he's going to drag my dead body out of the car and probably not even give me the courtesy of a proper burial because he's so. Darn. Angry. I feel like I could cry, but that would be wasting precious water and I'm pretty sure I don't have much time left before dehydration takes me.

Sam would say I'm being dramatic. Sam would tell me to get out of the car and face the music. But shut up, Sam! You're not the one Dean's going to kill!

Why did I have to take the car? It was an impulse. I do that when I'm angry, stupid impulsive things, and I don't think about consequences like wrapping our favorite object around a tree or being strangled by my big brother or drowning in a pool of my own sweat because I'm trying to avoid being strangled by my big brother. I was mad because he wouldn't listen. He and Sam are going off on another hunt together, and I'm not allowed to go even just on the road with them, even if I promise to be good and not annoy them and stay in the motel room while they do what they need to do. Even if I do schoolwork while they're gone and don't touch the weapons and obey every order without question. Nope, I'm getting stuck here again. And it's nothing against Bobby. It's that I belong with _them_. I'm sick of getting left all the time.

So we had that big fight, which was really just me fighting and him saying, "This is how it's gonna be; you don't get a say in it" and then me snatching his keys and … well, you know the rest.

In my defense, it's really hard to steer and work the gas and brake when your feet don't come _quite_ all the way to the pedals. I wish I'd thought about that before I tried to drive away.

There is a loud thunk on the window above my head and I squeal. Oh crap, Dean's back and he has the thingie. I don't know what it's called, but I've seen them use it to jimmy locks in cars before. Maybe that's what it's called: a jimmy? I don't really think that matters at the moment, because he's using it to unlock the door which means I'm about to die. Unless maybe I can make a run for it? A Hail Mary? Hop out the other side of the car while he's busy with the lock pick and run as fast as I can for the treeline and maybe lose him in the woods? Climb a tree? I'm not looking for a great idea here, just one that will buy me some time for him to calm down before he gets his hands on me.

"Dean, stop!" I say. He doesn't. And so I retreat to the opposite side of the car, crawling on my butt and hands and feet like a crab moving backwards, I reach behind me to the door handle, my eyes glued to my brother as he works the tool into the locking mechanism, and at the same time the button pops into the "unlocked" position, I pull the handle on my side and flee into the fresh air beyond.

I didn't factor in that my feet might have gone to sleep while I was scrunched down in my cramped little sanctuary. I take two steps and fall hard to the ground, skidding several feet and scraping my knees on gravel and dirt and tree roots.

And then I'm being hauled up with a hand under my armpit and of course he would've caught me even if I hadn't fallen but _ugh_ , with the luck!

"What the _hell_ were you _thinking_ , huh?" he shouts, shaking me some to emphasize his words. And I know he doesn't want an answer, not really, and it's not like I could give him one that would satisfy him anyway because the truth is I _wasn't_ thinking, I was acting on impulse, and that's not going to help my case one bit.

So I settle for begging. "I'm sorry, Dean, I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm"

But he rolls his eyes and yells " _That's not good enough!_ " loud enough to make me start crying because have you ever seen my brother when he's mad? "You could have gotten yourself _killed_ , do you know that?"

I shake my head, surprised, underneath the fear, that that's even on his radar because I figured this was all about his car.

"N-no," I stammer.

"Well you could have! You can't just get pissed off at me and run off like that, it's not safe! I don't care what your problem is, this kind of thing doesn't happen on my watch, do you understand me?"

I nod and he shakes me again. "Y-yes, Dean!" I correct myself, knowing that he won't stand for a nonverbal answer any more than Daddy would when he's this angry.

"Good," he snaps, and with that he yanks me to his side, tucks me underneath his arm, and begins to smack my rear end so hard I start crying before the third swat.

"You don't EVER, EVER, EVER, EVER, EVER do anything like this again, Caroline Winchester," he says, punctuating each "EVER" with a whack that stings worse than the one before.

And I'm a sobbing mess when I hear Sam's voice in the distance and Dean pauses mid-spank. I'm still bent over, staring at the ground, so I can't see him, but I know that Sam has come from the direction of the house and is jogging toward us.

"What the hell, Dean?" he asks when he reaches us. "Stop!"

"Back off, Sam," Dean says. "Look at that and tell me she doesn't have this coming."

"What the?" Sam is obviously taking in the sight of the Impala crunched up against the tree, me sobbing in Dean's grip, putting the context clues together.

"Okay, I get it, but Dean. That's enough. You need to cool it," he says, and I thank my lucky stars that he is here and sounds so reasonable. When Dean releases me I run straight for Sammy, who opens his arms and lets me bury my face into his stomach.

But the comfort doesn't last long. Ten seconds or so, and he pulls me away from him by the shoulders and pins me with his stern gaze. "Dean and I need to talk," he says. "Go inside, go to your room."

"But Sammy—" I begin, wanting to get my defense out before Dean has a chance to tell his side of the story. Sam interrupts me and his tone is icy.

" _Go_ , Callie," he says. "And _stay_ there. If you're not in that room when we come back, I'll spank you myself."

Surprise propels me into the house, up the stairs, and into the room that serves as mine when we're at Bobby's. I throw myself down onto the bed and scream my frustration into the pillow. They want to leave me, that's what this is. They hate having to deal with me. Right now, they're out there talking about the best way to ditch me and maybe that's acting like total asses so that I'll be relieved when they go instead of clinging to them like I usually do. But the joke's on them: Nothing they can do will make me not want to be with them. No matter how unfair they are, or how clueless as to my moods and emotional needs. No matter how overprotective or strict or dismissive of my thoughts and concerns. They are my family, and I will _never_ not want to be with them.

It's a long time before Dean appears in my doorway. So long that the room has grown dim and my bottom has almost—almost—stopped smarting. I sit up and gather my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. Defensive. Waiting.

He sits on the edge of the bed. His green eyes reveal nothing. Mine don't either.

He speaks first.

"I'm not sorry I spanked you," he says.

My eyebrows shoot up. I wasn't expecting him to open with that.

"You deserved it, and you know that."

I don't answer, because, yeah, maybe he's right.

"I'm sorry you don't understand why we have to leave you here, though. I know you think it's because we don't want you along, or you're a burden, or we don't trust you, or whatever else it is that you've dreamed up that makes it seem like we just don't want you along. Look at me Callie. That's not it at all. We leave you here for your own good."

I avoid his gaze. "Right. Because my own good is without you."

"Your own good is where I say it is," he says a little sharply, and I'm reminded that he's still probably at least somewhat pissed and maybe I shouldn't push it. "Your own good is someplace safe, and that's here."

"What if you guys don't come back?" I ask in a small voice. "What then?"

"We always come back, Cal."

"Until the day you don't," I counter. And he doesn't have a comeback for that, so he doesn't even try.

He does reach for my hands, though. I let him take them, one in each of his own. "I'm not going to lie to you. Hunting is dangerous. You know that. You've grown up with that. But look at me, Callie." He waits until I do. "What I _can_ tell you is that Winchesters are the best at what we do. And that my last breath, and Sam's, will be spent doing whatever the hell it takes to get back to you. We will never leave you on purpose."

I know, deep down, that this isn't the best comfort, but that it's the most honest comfort he can offer me right now. And I love him for it because he means it. I still can't quite force myself to make the first move, because I'm a Winchester and that means I'm stubborn as all hell. But when he grasps my ankle and pulls me forward until I'm within arm's reach, and then wraps me up in a suffocating hug, I don't protest.

I let him hold me for a while like that, and then he suddenly pulls back and pins me with a stern look. "And while we're gone, you're working for Bobby."

I blink. "What?

"Cleaning house, mowing the lawn, fielding phone calls, whatever he needs you for," he says. "You're working off everything it's going to take to fix my baby. Front end body work, paint job, new tires…"

"Dean, I didn't do anything to the tires!" I protest.

He smirks. "Prove it."

I wrap my arms around his middle and bury my face in his chest and try to capture the feel of his arms around me, the scent of home. It's going to be a long time before I see him again, and I want to memorize him, even though he is invincible and Sam is invincible and they would never dare to not return from a hunt. Even if it means I'll be working my ass off for the next few weeks to pay for my stupid stunt.

These are my brothers, and I would do anything for them.

I am a Winchester, and this is our life.


	23. Chapter 23

**Hey there! Another little addition to my Callie-verse. Pleeeeease make an insecure writer's day and review so I'll know you're with me and my muse won't die. She's fickle that way. Thank you to my faithful reviewers who know who you are. Your words mean more than you even know. Much love is coming your way!**

 **Dean – 18**

 **Sam – 14**

 **Callie – 5**

 **John – John Winchester age ㈴1**

* * *

Callie was bored.

Her daddy and brothers had been doing target practice and sparring and other hunting stuff _forever,_ and all she could do was sit in the dirt by the car and watch. She'd found a stick and started digging, but it was a poor substitute for real entertainment, plus she was getting hot and hungry and cranky.

"Daddy?" she called, not moving because she'd been expressly forbidden to budge past the home base of the Impala and she might have been cranky but she was NOT in the mood to get in trouble.

He didn't answer so she moved on down the line. "Dean?"

He was talking to Daddy, so no help there.

"Sammy?"

He glanced over, smiled, and winked. "Doing a great job, Cal," he called. "Not much longer."

"Sammy, come here!"

He started over. "What's up?" he asked when he reached her, squatting down next to her and patting her affectionately on the head.

"Can we go?" she asked.

"Not quite yet, kiddo, sorry."

"But when?"

"I don't know, whenever Dad says."

"Why does he get to make the rules?"

"Because he's Dad."

"But Dean makes the rules when Dad's not here, and you make the rules when Dean's not. So can we pretend they're not here and you make a rule that it's time to go now?"

His dimple deepened with his grin. "I wish it worked that way." He pointed a thumb toward the clump of dusty soil she was digging at. "Whatcha making?"

"Dirt castle," she said somberly. "The dirt's too crumbly though. An' I don't have enough spit to make it stick together."

"Ah, yeah, I see the problem," he said, nodding gravely. "Hang on." He stood and walked over to the Impala, opened the back door, and came back with a half-empty bottle of water. He poured it on Callie's sad little pile of dirt, took her stick out of her hand, and stirred the dirt into mud of a suitable building consistency.

Callie perked up, showing her own dimples as she grinned up at her brother. "Thanks, Sammy!"

"Sam! Front and center!" John barked, making Sam and Callie both flinch. "We're gonna stay out here till you can do this in your sleep; you want to keep wasting time playing in the damn dirt?"

Sam's smile faded, but he ruffled his sister's hair before he stood up. "Hang in there a little longer, okay? If you keep being good I'll see if Dad will let me walk you down to the McDonald's near the motel and get some ice cream later."

She watched him with adoring eyes as he trotted back to join Dean and Daddy. Sammy knew how to make dirt castles. He smiled a lot and hugged her a lot and didn't get mad when she complained about being bored in the car or in the motel room. He read to her at bedtime and made sure she brushed her teeth and brought her little treats whenever he could. He praised more than he scolded and had never used the phrase "Because I said so" or snapped at her when she was asking a simple question. He almost never yelled, and he'd only put her in time out twice—and both times she'd had it coming.

She went back to patting the sides of the now-moldable mud hill, starting to shape it and form walls. Soon the building had blossomed underneath her hands, looking like an actual castle! Well, maybe it was lumpy and kind of blah because, well, mud. But it was way better than what she'd started with.

"It needs flowers," she muttered to herself. Flowers would detract from the muddiness of the mud and make it look pretty. Callie Winchester was far from a "pretty pretty princess" kind of child, she held a fair amount of contempt for the girls who were, but she did like nice things. One of her most prized treasures was a collection of different-colored glass shards that she kept in a tiny box at the bottom of her duffel bag. She hoped against hope that her dad and brothers never found it because they'd probably throw it away, citing the possibility of her cutting herself. And while Callie was generally a very obedient little girl, she was pretty sure she'd put up a good fight if she had to, to save her glass collection.

There were flowers, tons of them, just inside the treeline of the woods several yards from where the Impala was parked. It wasn't _technically_ out of bounds because she wouldn't be moving _closer_ to her family and their potential stray bullets; she'd be moving farther away. Still, she was so used to hearing "no" that she thought it better to just do it without asking. She glanced over to make sure the three elder Winchesters were all sufficiently preoccupied, and then she tiptoe-ran toward the woods.

She gathered handfuls of flowers—weeds, actually, but she didn't know that and they were pretty even so—and then she spotted some bigger ones a little deeper into the woods. She ran over and picked them, too. And then she saw the little creek, and the sound of the fresh water trickling daintily over the smooth stones at the bottom proved too tempting to resist. She kicked off her shoes, yanked off her socks, and walked over to wade.

Fifteen blissful minutes of letting the clear, cool water wash over her feet and ankles, halfway up her calves in some spots, and she was happier than she'd been all day. She'd washed the caked dirt off her hands and was splashing water on her sweaty face when she heard her name being called from nearby. Her heart skipped a beat and her eyes snapped up to meet Dean's.

"Callie Winchester! What are you doing? We told you to stay by the car," he scolded. "Get out of there and get your butt back where it's supposed to be."

Callie pouted slightly. "It feels so good, Dean," she pleaded. "Can't I play a little longer?"

He rolled his eyes and started toward her. "You know what won't feel good? When Dad beats your behind for wandering away; now come on before he sees you're gone." He reached for her arm and helped her up onto the muddy bank of the creek.

Dean snagged her shoes and socks from where she'd shed them and pointed to a nearby tree stump. "Sit," he said. She sat. He knelt down and used the end of his Zeppelin tee-shirt to dry off her feet before tugging her socks back on.

"I can do that myself," she said, not in a bratty way but in a prideful one.

He raised an eyebrow at her and gave her a half-smile. "I know you can," he said. "Consider this a shortcut."

"I can't tie, though. When's someone gonna teach me how to tie?"

"These are Velcro, no tying required," he said, fastening the straps on the first shoe and starting on the other sock.

"But I want to know how to tie," she said. "Jackson M. told me only babies wear Velcro."

"He did, huh?" Dean frowned. "Well you tell Jackson M. that's not true. Velcro is like the best invention ever, _way_ better than laces."

"You wear laces," she pointed out.

"Yeah, they don't make Velcro boots. Bums me out every time I have to put them on."

She giggled, knowing he was being silly. Then she said, very seriously, "Jackson M. is an asshole."

Dean's eyes registered first surprise, then amusement, which he quickly masked with what he felt was an appropriate display of disapproval. "Hey now, that's not a nice word for a little girl."

"But he pushes me and steps on my heels so my shoes come off when we're s'posed to be walking single-file and then Mrs. Johnson gets onto me for holding up the whole class when I have to put my shoe back on."

Dean felt a surge of protective anger, and had to bite his tongue before agreeing out loud that this kid sounded like a first-degree asshole. "What do you do when he does those things?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"Well, see, there's your problem. You gotta show him you're not afraid of him. Fight back. Not necessarily with your fists, because that'll just get _you_ in trouble. But with your words, with your attitude, just like Sammy would. You, my girl, are _Callie Freaking Winchester._ No little kindergarten punk is gonna push you around. You hear me?"

She considered for a few moments, then nodded. "Okay Dean."

"And," he added, finishing with her second shoe and holding out his hand for her. She took it and they started back toward the clearing. "If that doesn't work, you tell Jackson M. that your big brother knows how to summon demons that suck on the brain stems of mean six-year-old brats."

When they reached the Impala, Dean picked Callie up and plunked her onto the trunk. He pointed a finger at her nose. "Stay here this time," he commanded. "I saved you once, but if you wander off again and Dad notices you're gone, it's your butt."

She nodded, and he turned away. She caught his hand before he could leave. "Dean! Do you really know how to summon those brain-sucking demons?" she asked, her green eyes wide and so young and innocent that Dean wanted to wrap her in a big hug and kiss her forehead. Instead he just shrugged.

"What do you think?"

She seemed to ponder that question deeply before replying with absolute sincerity, "I think you can do _anything_."

Oh, hell. Dean stepped back to her and gave her that hug and kiss after all. He glanced back to make sure his dad and brother hadn't seen, then, in an effort to salvage an ounce of dignity, he growled, "You stay put or you'll find out for sure." But she just giggled—clearly he needed to work on his threatening demeanor.

* * *

John and Sam were still trying to perfect Sam's aim. As Dean strode back to them, he was not surprised that the sniping had started. It was hot, they'd been at it a long time, and Dad and Sammy didn't exactly have the best track record of spending this much time together without going at each other's throats.

"Hey, Dad," he said, "Why don't you take a water break? Let me see if I can get through his thick skull. You know, two of a kind and all."

John studied his eldest. The boy had a point, and if he kept this up he was going to kill Sam with his bare hands. "He's dropping his shoulder," he said to Dean as he pushed the rifle into Dean's hands and stomped away.

Callie saw her daddy coming and the stormy expression on his face and was instantly wary. An angry John was a scary John, and it didn't really matter what the source of his anger was; whoever was closest was as good a target as any.

As if to prove that point, John fixed her with a scowl and said, "Hey. Butt off the car."

She obediently slid down to the ground, resisting the urge to tell him that Dean had put her up there. After making sure she had done what he told her to do, he headed off toward the woods.

"Where are you going, Daddy?" she asked.

"Taking a walk," he said. "Stay by the car, where your brothers can see you."

"Can I come with you?"

It was a bold request. John Winchester didn't make the best company when he was in this kind of mood, what Callie had come to think of as his Be Careful mood. But their father had been gone for a week and she had missed him. Even if he could be grumpy and quick to anger and sometimes unapproachable and always unpredictable. Even if he drank too much of that stuff Dean said was only for grown-ups. Even if he didn't smile very often or hug almost ever and was hard on her brothers and short with her. Even if he'd swatted her rear end just that morning for spilling milk even though Sammy had assured her a bunch of times that accidents happen. Even though all these things, he was her Daddy, and she loved him.

He paused when she asked the question and looked back at her, and she held her breath, waiting for the inevitable "No."

What happened, instead, was that he held his hand out toward her. Sunlight broke on her face and she practically skipped to his side to slip her little hand into his big rough one. Together they went into the woods, companionably silent. When they reached the creek she'd been playing in earlier, she looked up at him with pleading eyes and he somehow understood exactly what she wanted. A smile in his eyes, he nodded once. "Go ahead," he said.

She threw her shoes and socks aside and splashed right in, giggling and squealing at the feeling of the cold water and the smooth stones under her feet. "Come in, Daddy! It feels really good!" she said happily.

John watched his daughter for a few minutes, the dappled sunlight playing in her long hair, highlighting sparks of chestnut and blonde and auburn in the tangled ponytail Sam had done that morning. Her big green eyes full of simple happiness, innocence, excitement over nothing more than wading barefoot in a creek. Had the boys ever played this way? Had Callie, before now? Watching her, thinking of them all, he felt as if his heart was going to break.

"Daddy?"

He blinked a few times, rapidly, to clear the sheen that had invaded his vision. "Yeah, baby, what?"

"Will you come in with me?" she asked again.

This time, he hesitated only for a moment before reaching down to unlace his boots.


	24. Broken Hearts Collide

**Hi lovely people! I hope it's not confusing the way Simple Kind of Life has become a catch-all for Callie stories, long and short, different ages and time periods. I will try to clarify in each one where we are in the timeline unless it's obvious or spelled out in the story like it is here. My heartfelt request is that if you read it and like it, PLEASE leave me a review. Writing is rewarding, but if no one is reading, or if they are and you don't know what they think because they're not telling you, it makes the writing process that much slower and stickier and less fulfilling for you and me both. And then the ideas die, and that's very sad. I don't want to bury Callie yet. She's young and fun to write.  
**

* * *

Three weeks and two days after Sam left home, life had become almost unbearable for Callie. It went far beyond missing him; she felt as if someone had cut out a third of her heart. And if that weren't bad enough, their dad had been drinking like his life depended on it, scouting out cases that held even a thread of supernatural potential so he could get back on the road for a day or two, leaving Callie in the care of a heartbroken, pissed-off, and increasingly volatile Dean.

The elephant in the room was getting bigger by the day. Bigger, brighter, heavier, and angrier. Callie couldn't stand it much longer.

"Why don't you talk about him anymore?" she asked one night as she and her oldest brother sat on opposite ends of the couch with a pizza box between them. She was picking pepperoni gingerly off the top of her pizza and setting it back on the cardboard box. Dean would eat them.

Dean didn't glance away from the TV. "Oh, man, this is a good one," he said with his mouth full, nodding toward the screen as another stupid sitcom started. "You'll like this show."

"Dean."

"Hm?"

"Did you hear me?"

He swallowed his pizza, took a giant swig of beer, cleared his throat, and wiped his mouth with a paper towel, all without looking her way. "I heard you," he acknowledged dismissively. "Come on, watch this. I'm telling you, it's comedy gold."

She sighed. This is how it went. Every time she tried to open the discussion, Dean would shut it down, either by ignoring and redirecting the conversation or by getting irritable and snappish. One time he had even stormed out the front door in the midst of her questioning. She'd peeked out the window and watched as he got behind the wheel of the Impala and … just sat there. He came in twenty minutes later, kissed her on top of the head, and told her to go get ready for bed.

The ache in her heart for Sam had blossomed over the short time he'd been gone, and now it wasn't reserved exclusively for Sam, but for Daddy, who wasn't here either, and for Dean, who was—but only in body. She missed her family, the whole of them, the bickering and the teasing, the hunting talk, the sound of hushed, gruff voices lulling her to sleep as they hunched over a map and some newspaper articles. Their odd, Winchester-style brand of affection and devotion. Even the fighting, which had gotten so bad in the last few weeks before he left. Even though it left her with a pit in her stomach and fear in her heart, at least—at _least_ —they had all been together.

Now that it was mostly just the two of them, she yearned for the missing voices, for the assurances that it would blow over, that no one was angry at _her_ , that they just needed to hash things out between themselves.

Dean didn't reassure her anymore. He didn't talk about what had happened; he didn't even say Sam's name, and when Callie did, he flinched. Every time. But being nine years old, or maybe just being a Winchester and therefore hardwired to be stubborn as all hell, she didn't stop doing it. She wouldn't let Sammy fade away like he'd never been one of them, like he didn't matter and wasn't every bit her brother and his, every bit Daddy's son, just because he wasn't here physically. If all they had was his memory, then she was damn well going to keep it alive. And if that made Dean angry? Well then that was a chance she was going to have to take.

"Dean."

"Hm."

She rolled her eyes, suddenly looking years beyond her age. And then she reached for the remote and switched off the TV.

"Hey, what—"

Finally his green eyes met hers. "I'm trying to talk to you," she said.

"And I'm trying to enjoy my dinner, Callie, it's been a long day. Come on, give it back." He held his hand out for the remote, irritation plain in his expression.

"No."

"I'm not doing this with you. Turn the TV back on, now."

"No!"

"Callie, don't act like a toddler; I am not in the mood."

"Well I'm not either," she shot back. "I'm not in the mood for you to keep being this way and making me pretend that our life hasn't turned into _shit_! That may work for you but it doesn't work for me!"

He froze, his eyebrow shooting up. "Watch your mouth," he warned, his voice calm in that forced way he had when he was on the verge of losing his temper. "And you're done. Go throw your plate away and go to bed."

"Fine! I will after I finish saying what I want to say. Sam is gone and it _sucks_!" she continued, shouting now, feeling the tears threatening but refusing to let them fall. "And it's not like he's dead! He's not dead, Dean, but you're acting like he is! Or worse, like he doesn't even matter anymore! Don't you _care_?"

Dean's jaw clenched and he set his beer down on the coffee table, deceptively calm as he stood up and towered over her. "You're digging a hole you don't want to see the bottom of. Let it go _now_ , kiddo, or you're going to regret it in about ten seconds. Now I gave you an order and I know you heard me. Upstairs. Bed. _Go_." His voice was low, gruff, and held a clear warning that ordinarily she would respond to without question.

But she was too upset this time. So she simply stood up and put a safe amount of distance between herself and her brother. She held his gaze bravely. "I should have gone with him," she said, her voice wavering slightly. "You don't want to be stuck here with me and I don't want to be with you either."

If her words hurt him, the only indication was the twitch of a muscle in his jaw. "Well that's just too fucking bad, princess, because we're stuck with each other."

"We don't have to be," she said. "You can go, take your car and get back on the road. Hunt! Kill bad things! It would be better for both of us than you staying here hating me and hating yourself and hating Sam when _really_ the one you should be hating is Dad! Because _he's_ the one who made Sammy leave, and _he's_ the one who told him not to come back, and _he's_ the one who left you here with me! It's his fault, he's the asshole who broke our family!" Her voice broke on that last part and a few tears spilled over and slipped down her cheeks.

Usually Dean was undone by her tears, but the very concept of "usually" didn't seem to apply in their lives anymore. If anything, his expression hardened even more, fire blazing in the depths of his eyes, and she felt a flutter of fear and took an involuntary step back even though she was already well beyond his arm's reach.

"If you don't haul ass upstairs now, my belt's coming off," he said tightly, the words gritted out between his teeth. "Go. To. Your. Room."

She threw the remote at him, and with blinding reflexes, he caught it an inch before it smacked him in the chest. And because she was upset beyond all reason and had lost any remaining control over her mouth, she hit him where it really hurt.

"Congratulations, Dean. You're turning into Daddy in all the worst ways."

And then she ran.

* * *

 **Part 2 of this story-within-a-story coming soon. PLEASE take a second to review!  
**


	25. Broken Hearts Collide, part 2

**Here's Part 2 of this story-within-a-story. Please enjoy!**

* * *

Every temper-driven instinct inside Dean Winchester told him to go after his little sister, to catch her before she'd managed more than a few feet of her melodramatic exit and give her a John Winchester-style reality check. Instead he stood clutching the remote control she had hurled at him and listening as her footsteps thundered up the stairs and on the ceiling over his head, then wincing as her door slammed hard enough to rattle a framed picture on the wall.

He clenched his teeth so hard his jaw began to ache. He wanted to punch something. Well, not some _thing_ , exactly, more like some _one_. The one who was to blame for everything they were going through right now, the one who had chosen a life of _normal_ , as if he had a right to do that, as if normal was even an option for the likes of them, and no matter how you sliced it, what he'd done was spit in their faces. In his face and Dad's face and in the face of everything they stood for. Their very lives. Their very purpose.

He could hate him for it, Dean thought, if he didn't miss him so goddamn much.

And then there was Callie. Callie, who was heartbroken and hurting so bad you could actually feel it when you got near her, a palpable storm of desperation and anger and fear and _ache_. His inability to do anything about it was what caused him to distance himself from her. Dean Winchester was a fixer, and if he couldn't stitch it up or tune it up or burn it away, he was at a loss. And that failure cut deep. His mission, far more important than killing evil sons of bitches and not dying while he was at it, was simple, clear, and irrefutable: Take care of Sammy. Take care of Callie. Instead, he'd lost Sam and he was losing Callie. Day by day she was coming to understand what Dean himself had known almost his whole life but which he had thus far been able to keep from the little girl who looked at him and saw a hero: He was a failure. He was powerless. He had _one job_ and he'd fucked it up so bad that Sam had abandoned them and Callie wished she could.

Family was his number one, hands down, always would be. But what no one really seemed to understand is that loyalty at its extreme is a fucking curse.

* * *

Callie was packing her duffel bag. She hadn't thought much beyond that, only that she intended to get out of here, where she wasn't wanted, where she served as nothing but an anchor weighing Dean down and keeping everyone from doing what they wanted to be doing. If she were out of the picture, Dean could go back on the road with Daddy. Sam could have his new life. If Callie disappeared, they could all be happy.

She wasn't so unaware that she didn't realize they would raise hell at first to try to find her. Out of knee-jerk worry, guilt, a sense of duty and hunterly obligation. They would go at each other, throw around blame and recrimination like it was their job. But then. Then when she didn't turn up and didn't turn up, they would accept it. Eventually they would go about their day-to-day lives and one day they might even be able to erase her from their past. Like she'd never existed.

That sounded kind of stupid, now that she thought about it.

She knew they loved her.

Daddy, who was cold and untouchable ninety-nine times out of a hundred but who would once in a blue moon sit next to her as she fell asleep and brush her hair out of her face and tell her he was proud of her for little things. For behaving while they trained. Or for keeping quiet on their 10-hour road trip that day. For not blowing their cover at school or for listening to her brothers when he wasn't around. Whatever it was, those moments were burned into her memory as points of pride, bright spots in a long stretch of gray and darker than gray.

Dean, whose grouchy exterior belied a tenderness that she was exclusively privy to when he was in the mood to show it. He was a teaser and a tummy tickler, a forehead-kisser and an eraser of bad moods with lighthearted words and bad jokes and horseplay. He could scold her one moment and the next ruffle her hair and let her know that all was forgiven and the slate was clean and she was always his girl. And no matter which of his polarized moods he was in, he was always, _always_ her hero.

And Sam. Sam, her friend and confidante. The one who could hear the meaning in her words even if she wasn't able to convey it very well. He could see her worries and predict her reactions and counter them with logic and understanding beyond what she could've hoped to expect. He would go to bat for her when she was in trouble and comfort her when he couldn't get her out of it. He was a hugger and a grinner and a drier of tears. A milkshake purveyor. A shelter in the storm, this rock of hers, this gentle giant with the strong arms and the soft, soft heart.

And he was gone.

And Daddy was gone.

And Dean might as well be.

She would be next.

The bag was almost full, but she squished in her favorite (only) teddy bear, a cheap purple thing that Dean had won for her at a carnival four or five years ago. It had only one eye and the stuffing was coming out of a rip in its side, but she loved the thing fiercely. She remembered how cocky he had been at first about his ability to toss the rings around the pegs, and how increasingly pissed off he got as he kept missing and shelling out three more bucks for another set of rings. She remembered Sam's merciless teasing, and his know-it-all lecture about rigged carny games and hapless marks. She remembered Dean telling him to shut it, if he had to hop over the table and shove the rings around the game runner's neck he was prepared to do so. She remembered his childlike excitement when he finally ringed all three pegs, how he had swooped her up in his arms and kissed her on the cheek and tossed a few "told-you-so"s Sam's way. She had chosen the purple one because it was pretty, and she slept with it for weeks on end. It smelled like popcorn and fried dough and candy apples and cigarette smoke and she couldn't have been prouder of it.

If she wasn't going to see them again, she wanted this to remember them by. Dean had bought her cotton candy that night, against Sam's protests that it was pure sugar and would rot her teeth and get her all riled up and they'd never get her to sleep, and they had ridden the Ferris wheel even though Dean wasn't a big fan of heights and looked kind of green throughout the ride.

It had been the BEST night.

She was half surprised that Dean hadn't followed her upstairs after she'd thrown the remote at him and stormed out. The other half of her figured he couldn't be bothered. That's kind of how it was with him since Sam left. Like some of what made Dean, well, _Dean_ , had been sucked out of him. Or had been trampled in the wake of the storm. She missed that part of him, even though if he had been one-hundred-percent Dean after that scene downstairs he would've no doubt flipped out and handed her ass to her. She guessed this made it a little easier, at least in practice, to run away.

Who was to say they'd even come looking for her? She might not have to hide out for too long anyway. That thought maybe should have comforted her, but it just hurt her heart.

The duffel bag barely zipped over her purple bear, but she managed, and then she slung the bag over her shoulder and went to the window. It had always been so easy to sneak out this window. She'd done it a million times. The nearly flat patch of roof extended just far enough for her to grab the closest branch of the tree that grew conveniently nearby, and from there it was just a matter of making her way down through the mass of leaves and scratchy limbs until she reached the bottom.

She'd only been caught doing this once, in a fit of pique after she had been ordered to her room for something she felt was utterly unfair and monumentally stupid. Lucky for her, it was Sam who'd spotted her. He'd been sitting on the back steps, flipping through some book of lore or other. He didn't even say anything, just fixed her with a stern gaze, shook his head firmly, and jerked a thumb back up toward her window. She got the hint and climbed back up that tree without a second thought. He never said anything to Dad or Dean, but that night when he'd come to tuck her in he'd leaned in close and said, "Hey. I know it's hard sometimes, Cal. Trust me, I know. But you don't run away just because life sucks every now and then. Do it again and I won't be so understanding, got it?"

What a joke. She laughed bitterly at the memory. "Who ran away, Sammy?" she muttered. "You're such a … a …" The word _hypocrite_ wasn't yet in her nine-year-old vocabulary, but it's what she would fill in later, once she'd gained more worldly and rather jaded insight and thought back on this time.

The duffel bag was stuffed but not heavy, as she'd only packed clothes and a few toiletries. She didn't have much else. So it was okay to just dangle it over the edge of the bit of roof she was standing on and let it go. A couple of seconds later, it made a dull _puff_ sound as it landed in the dust below. She carefully maneuvered down the tree branches until she stepped on solid ground. Then she grabbed the duffel straps, heaved the bag up onto her shoulder, and began walking away from the house.

She didn't think of what would happen when he discovered her missing. She didn't think of the panic and the horror that every hunter knows too well and fears on a daily basis. She only imagined her brother behind the wheel of his beloved Impala, music blaring, windows down so the air blew wildly as the road unwound before him. She was setting him free. He would be _free_.

* * *

Two beers and a lot of deep breaths later, Dean was ready to face his sister without wanting to do any bodily harm. He knew the kid was hurting, and he might not be able to bring Sam or Dad back, but he could do what he could do. What he'd always done. He could be her big brother, he could pretend that he was as strong as she thought he was, and he could tell her pretty lies like _It's going to be fine._ She was nine years old; don't all nine-year-olds need to hear that sometimes, even if it's not completely true?

Doesn't everyone?

* * *

 **Hey lovely readers! Thank you for answering, in spades, my desperate plea for feedback. I got so many lovely PMs and some reviews that made me smile and brightened my day and my outlook on writing in general. You are all wonderful and I appreciate each and every one of you.**

 **I hope you enjoyed this chapter-within-a-chapter (this is the second part, and I expect there will be one more to wrap up). Please let me know what you think!**

 **Love, love, love my SPN Family.**


	26. Broken Hearts Collide, part 3 (end)

Later on, looking back, Callie wasn't sure if she actually expected to get away or not. All she knew was that she was barely clear of the yard and into the copse of trees that stood sentry around the property when she heard Dean shouting her name. She panicked. He was still a good ways away, but her brother was not only a good tracker, he was a fast runner and a smart hunter. She'd hoped to make a little more headway before he realized she was missing.

"Callie! Come on, I know you're out here!"

He didn't sound angry, and she thought maybe she could turn herself in now and avoid big trouble, but the fact remained that she was doing this for his own good. And part of her, the little petty part that sometimes sparked with jealousy at her family's hunting experience and talent, wondered if she could outwit him this time.

"Callie Winchester, I'm counting to five and I better see your face when I get there. ONE."

Oh crap, now he was counting? He hadn't used that one since she was much younger and easier to scare. (And she had never let him get to five, or three, or whatever random number he was aiming for, because she did _not_ want to know what would happen if he did.)

She looked desperately around herself and saw nothing but trees, trees, and more trees. Well, that would have to do. Maybe the only thing she could do better than Dean was climb trees. Sam called her Monkey sometimes because of that particular talent, although he was also the one most likely to make her come down before she'd reached the top. That's when Dean would call him a mother hen, and Sam would call him something she wasn't supposed to repeat. She'd only ever fallen out of a tree once, and she hadn't even gotten hurt, but Sam had broken his arm when he was a kid and so she supposed he'd earned the right to be a little paranoid about her acrobatic skills.

For now, though, tree-climbing was less about recreation than self-preservation. She could hear crunching branches coming closer as Dean made his way through the woods, periodically calling her name and a number. He was on three when she threw her duffel bag into a tangle of brambles to camouflage it and on four when she grasped the lowest limbs of a sturdy climbing tree and hauled herself up almost effortlessly. She was well off the ground when her right Converse slipped off one branch and, simultaneously, the branch supporting her left foot cracked and then gave way. She screamed as she suddenly found herself dangling by her hands, her feet kicking helplessly in an attempt to find purchase.

Her hands slipped a little, the rough bark scraping her palms, and she screamed again, the sound piercing the nighttime forest air like an ice pick. A startled bird flapped and squawked as it flew from a nest high above her head.

"Callie?!" Dean's voice rang out, closer now. "Callie, where are you?"

"Dean! Dean, help me!" Callie cried out. Her hands were starting to ache, and she didn't dare move her head to see how far up she was … but she knew it was far enough to be scared.

More rustling sounded in the woods below as he followed the sound of her voice. "I'm coming, baby girl," he called, and the use of that term of endearment made her heart swell.

"Dean, hurry, I'm gonna fall! I'm gonna—"

 _Crack_. Part of the branch she was hanging onto with both hands broke off and clattered down and down and down. She was able—just barely—to adjust her grip to a more solid section of the limb, but her hands were screaming at her now, her scraped palms singing in pain and her knuckles begging to unclench, to relax…

" _Deeeean!_ " she squealed, tears of terror stinging the corners of her eyes.

Far below her, Dean burst through a particularly snarled tangle of bushes and brambles, gun in hand, hunter instincts firing on all cylinders, big brother instincts working overtime. His eyes scanned desperately for any sign of his sister or whatever monster had ahold of her. He knew she had to be close, but there was no sign of her on the—

A flash of movement caught his razor-sharp attention and he jerked his head up. His heart jumped into his throat when he saw her hanging there, her feet so impossibly far above the ground, kicking weakly and frantically. He swallowed his fear and then shouted up to her, forcing his voice to come out strong and clear and authoritative.

"I see you, Callie, I'm right here. Hold on, you hear me? Stop kicking and just hold on. I'm coming to get you."

"You can't climb a tree!" she protested.

"Well, looks like you're not the best at it either," he said, testing the branches for sturdiness and finding to his dismay that many of them were too weak to hold his weight. "But you've left me pretty slim options here, kiddo."

"Dean, I can't hold on much longer!" she cried.

"You don't have to for much longer, all right? I'm coming. _Hold. On_."

"I can't! It hurts!"

"You can and you will," he said sharply, putting an extra dose of obey-or-else force behind his words.

Callie squeezed her eyes shut tight and did as he said. She could hear him making his painfully slow way up the branches toward her, but he still sounded so terribly far away. His progress was punctuated by snapping branches, scraping sounds, and cursing, but every now and then he would remind her to hold on and tell her he was almost there. She tried to believe him, but it was beginning to feel like he was never going to reach her. And then she felt a strong hand encircle her ankle, and she screamed and almost let go of the branch.

"Easy, easy, I got you," Dean's voice commanded. "Stay still." She froze and he maneuvered a little further up, until he could slide an arm tightly around her waist. Once it was locked in place, he said, "Okay, Callie, you can let go."

" _No!_ " she said, so entrenched in the idea that holding on was her only option. "I can't!"

"You can. Come on now, I got you. I'm not going to let you fall."

She finally opened her eyes and met her big brother's identical gaze. "Are you sure?" she asked. "Are you sure, Dean?"

His heart squeezed at the little-girl fear in her tone, her intention to put all of her trust in him in that moment, and he gripped her tighter and put every ounce of certainty he could muster into his response. "I'm sure. I got you."

She let go. Dean felt a surge of relief wash through him as he hugged her small body briefly and then helped her get her feet on a solid branch. "Can you climb down, do you think?" he asked. "I'll be right with you."

She nodded with more certainty than she felt, but when Dean started climbing down, she did too. And the trip down didn't feel as monumental as it seemed like it should have. Dean reached the ground before Callie did and reached up to grasp her around the waist, swinging her down and straight into his arms. He buried his face in the side of her neck and she wrapped her arms and legs around him like a tree frog and began to cry from the collision of belated terror and rushing relief.

Once she had stopped trembling and his heartbeat had returned to something like normal, he set her on her feet. She looked up at him with dread in her eyes, knowing that this was the part where he would start yelling. She'd screwed up bad and she knew it. And running away was rarely the answer—she couldn't quite admit that it was _never_ the answer, because she liked to hold a card out of the deck in case she ever needed it.

Dean stared at her for so long without saying anything that she started to feel uncomfortable. Maybe she should break the ice.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you and threw the remote at you and said bad things about Daddy and climbed out my window and hid in the woods and climbed that stupid dead tree," she said, the words tumbling out of her in one breath.

"I'm sorry too," he said.

She was so shocked by that she did a double take. " _Christo_ ," she muttered under her breath, and was even more surprised when Dean laughed heartily.

"I'm not possessed, Callie," he said. "I'm just … I've been a di—a jerk lately, and I haven't been what you've needed me to be, and I'm sorry for that."

"Oh. That's. That's okay." She did not know what to do with this turn of events.

"I miss him, too. I miss Sam. And I miss Dad. And I miss how things used to be. But kiddo, when something makes me sad, I don't like to think about it. So I've been pretending everything's fine, and getting mad at you when you remind me that it's not. That's not fair. This is my crap, okay, not yours." He took a deep breath. "I hate that I can't make this better for you. For both of us. But what I can tell you is that you're not hurting alone. Maybe that's not the best comfort, but it's something. And we'll be okay. We _will_ be okay."

Callie chewed on her lip and let her brother's words wash over her. He had said Sam's name. He had told her they would be okay. He was hurting too. And no, it _wasn't_ the best comfort, but he was right: It was _something_. She felt like someone had lifted a weight off of her heart.

"That does _not_ —" he continued, and the return of his bossy, lectury tone actually made her feel _better_ for once—"excuse you from running away and climbing the deadest goddamn tree in the whole forest here. I mean, were you _trying_ to get yourself killed?"

"No, I just had to hurry," she said.

He cocked an eyebrow at her. "Why?"

"Because," she said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You were on FOUR."

When he laughed again, she realized she hadn't heard that sound in so very long, and how she had _missed_ it. She launched herself at him, throwing her arms around his middle and burying her face in his stomach. "Hey, hey, what's this?" he asked, putting a hand on top of her head and stroking her hair.

After a few moments, stepped away and smiled at him. "I just love you," she said.

He made a show of grumbling the words away like he always did, too cool for chick-flick moments, but she saw the glint in his eyes that told her she'd said something he really needed to hear.

"Well, you're all right yourself," he said. "But you're still grounded till you're seventeen."

She nodded wisely. That was all right.

"Let's get you home and clean up those hands."

She looked down at her scraped, bleeding palms and felt mild surprise that she hadn't even thought about them until he said something. Now that she saw how bad they looked, they suddenly hurt again.

That didn't stop her from slipping a hand securely into her brother's as they started back through the woods toward home.

* * *

 **That does it for this little side trip in the long journey of A Simple Kind of Life. There will (hopefully) be more as inspiration strikes. I've been in a writing mood lately, so that's promising. I owe a great deal of that to those of you who have kept me encouraged with your kind reviews and PMs. Thank you all, and please let me know how you felt about this wrap-up of the three-part mini-story.  
**


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